


Fantasy AUs

by Feynite, SeleneLavellan



Series: Dirthalene [13]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: Aspect AU, Before Arlathan AU, Bodyswap, Emerald Knight AU, F/M, Fairy AU, Fantasy based worldbuilding, Fantheon AU, Feynite Fanwork, Hades/Persephone retelling, Maze AU, Monster Hunter AU, Moon Palace AU, Pretty Men at Swordpoint, Raised By Sharkbait, Romance, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, compilation fic, keepers daughter au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 23:13:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 68,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17089562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeleneLavellan/pseuds/SeleneLavellan
Summary: Various One-Shots from Tumblr that are based in non-modern Fantasy Worlds. Includes soulmate marks gone horribly wrong, Hades/Persephone retellings, and pretty men at sword point, and much more. Each Chapter is labeled.





	1. Keepers Daughter AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selene as the captured daughter of a Keeper during the founding days of the Empire

She is in chains.

Arms bound behind her, feet heavy with shackles that are laced with enchantments to push down her magics. 

To keep her from killing the rest of them, she supposes.

 

“You murdered my eldest daughter,” Accuses their mother, a fake goddess of the moon. “Do you feel no remorse?”

“She slaughtered my family,” Selene spits. “Killed my brothers and sisters, my mother and father, and you accuse me of the loss of one blood-drenched child?”

 

“Do you deny it?”

 

Selene hesitates. The scene plays over in her mind; a storm of arrows raining down from the sky, piercing the hides of her siblings. The screech of her mother as she tried to fight it off, to hold back the assault and give the clan time to escape. The way the ground had rumbled when her father fell, sword still gripped tight in his hand. The unwavering flood of rage as she took it from his corpse and thrust it through the Huntresses neck, claws hooking deep into Selenes thigh as she fell to the ground, gasping through the gurgle of her blood for breath and dragging Selenes body down with her, into the hands of the Evanuris.

 

“No.” She finally whispers.

 

The hall erupts in flames as Elgar'nans fury rings through her ears. The Halla mother screams from her throne for Selenes head, for the right to feed her entrails to the beasts as payment for the death of her wife.

 

Selene waits. Tall and still, as the fire burns around her and the family screams at one another over what punishment would be most suitable for the death of one of their own. A slow breath flows from her lips, as she tries to remain calm. They have already taken her family, and her clan; she will not allow them her dignity.

 

“I will take her.” announces the masked figure. Calm and decisive, the low tones of his voice reaching past the shrill cries of the others.

A strangely familiar voice.

 

“Are you sure that is wise, my son?” Asks the mother.

“It will allow for the most fair punishment,” he reasons. “I will have a labyrinth built to contain the keepers daughter. Ghilan'nain may add in whichever of her creatures she feels would be most suited to its paths; a long hunt would be most fitting in honor of Andruils passing, would it not?”

 

Elgar'nan roars that someone who murdered a child of his should be brought down by his own hand, but it is only the matter of a few soothing words from his wife to get him to agree that a long drawn out punishment will be more satisfying than a quickly burned out candle.

 

Selene is forced to her knees as they pass their judgment, one of the guards pulling her hair tight in their grip and slicing their sword clean through at the base of her neck. The weight of her braid is gone instantly, dredging up memories of her siblings and their usual morning ritual of doing each others hair for the day. A tradition none of them will ever partake in again, the others all slaughtered and left to decompose in the wild.

Her hair is given to the halla mother, who spares her a glance full of such hatred that Selene is surprised a new spirit isn’t being born or corrupted on the spot.

 

She is dragged off and drugged, forced into a state of light uthenera to keep her calm and sedated for the months it will take to complete her prison.

 

The masked man himself comes to take her to the finished maze.

 

“Do you remember me?” He asks during their journey.

 

Selene glances up at him, stomach growling as she tries to pull on some of her remaining strength to take a closer look. But with the mask and cloak, it is difficult to make out any sort of familiar figure.

“Should I?” She finally replies.

He pauses in his steps. “You spared me on the battlefield. I thought, perhaps, you had recognized me.”

 

Selene stops. 

Closes her eyes, and tries to place the voice.

_Ah._

 

“You were the man with the Varterral,” She realizes. “Before the battle.”

 

He nods. “Were those dragonlings with you the siblings you mentioned?”

“Yes.” Selene says, her stomach roiling at the memory.

“You left without speaking to me that day.”

“Were you expecting a conversation?” She almost laughs.

 

“I was curious,” he admits “how you came upon that location. Not many are able to access that piece of my territory.”

 

“There was a path in the dreaming,” she shrugs. It is hardly much of a secret now, with no clan left to protect. “It reached from one of our rivers to your own. The youngest had a terrible streak of curiosity, and so we followed it. We were not expecting a creature who devours dragons to be waiting on the other side.”  
  


The masked man nods in acceptance of her answer, and continues walking.

 

“It was confused by your presence,” he explains. “Varterrals are meant to protect elves from dragons. Your families existence was a contradiction to its instincts.”

“And yours isn’t?”

 

He tilts his head, considering. “We are able to become dragons,” he explains slowly, as though speaking it aloud for his own sake rather than hers  “But most of us are not born with the traits quite so prominently as your own kind is.”

 

Silence stretches between them for several minutes, as they continue marching her to the labyrinth.

 

“You weren’t wearing a mask that day,” Selene finally breaks. “Nor on the battlefield.”

The man nods again “I wear it for the sake of others. My own countenance is not always pleasing. On the battlefield, I have found that to be beneficial. Some enemies find it distracting.”

 

“Why did you spare us in your fields if you were only going to kill us on the battlefield?” Selene asks.

“I was not sure who you were that day,” he admits. “Would it have been better if I had allowed the Varterral to kill you all that day?”

“For your sake, perhaps.”

 

“You spared me in the battle,” He points out. “You could have struck me as easily as you had Andruil, but you turned away.”

 

Selene shifts uncomfortably, wondering if perhaps she should have killed as many of them as she could manage that day.

She does not admit that she still has terrors of the Huntresses death, or that she had been trained as a healer for her clan rather than a fighter. She does not admit that purposely causing harm without a greater cause makes her feel ill. She does not admit that she got  _lucky_  with the break in the other womans armor. Does not admit that the way her flesh had yielded to the enchanted steel still makes her skin crawl, or that she wonders if she made the right choice. Does not admit that she wonders if her clan might have been spared if only she had let the Huntress live, rather than be hunted and chased through the plains and forests like prey, slaughtered without mercy or remorse.

 

“You spared my siblings,” She says instead “I suppose that simply makes us even.”

 

The man nods again as they approach the towering stone wall. Magic radiates from it, and even from here she can tell that once inside her own will be greatly suppressed. The sun is just barely cresting over the edge of the wall, low in the sky as it sets.

 

“This is the labyrinth,” He explains “There are various traps and creatures within. Many will shift to fit your own fears and weaknesses. There is also food and water in several locations, if you are able to reach them before the creatures do.”

“How long am I meant to be in there?” Selene asks quietly, staring at her unorthodox cage.

“That is up to you,” he says. “Until you find death or absolution I imagine.”

 

She turns to stare at him again, remembering the face beneath the mask and trying to see it through the enchantments. “What would I need absolution for?”

“You are more suited to finding that answer than I am.” he answers vaguely, one hand waving over the wall as an entryway appears. “I wish you luck.”

 

Selenes eyes narrow slightly, before turning away from him to look at her cage. “Is that sarcasm?”

“No,” he says, allowing a small glow of sincerity to roll off of him. “But I will be keeping a close eye on your progress.”

“Sure,” Selene mutters, stepping inside as the door shuts with a heavy groan behind her. “That’s not creepy at _all_.”


	2. Keepers Daughter AU (A Moments Reprieve)

The darkness is overwhelming. She has tried to light her fires, over and over and over again, only to have them immediately snuffed out. She has fought and clawed her way through their wards, shifting her bones and her eyes in an effort not to drown in it. Screams call out to her; her siblings, her parents, her clan members. People she knows aren’t really there.

The ground beneath her shakes, and the air fills with the tingle of electricity as the hair on the back of her neck stands on end.

The beast has found her then.

Selene takes a deep breath to center herself, letting it out slowly as she readies for the coming fight.

The creature turns the corner, and the darkness evaporates. The change is nearly blinding, her pupils shrinking into slits as it charges towards her, ten times her size and covered in dark red fur, silver eyes gleaming with the reflection of its huge towering horns channeling lightning between them. Thunder roars in her ears as it slams into the wall behind her, Selene sliding out of its path just in time.

She shakes her head, shaking off the disorientation as she moves; fast, faster, have to get behind it, have to get  _on top of it_.

This creature is faster than the others though, paws gliding over the stone floors as it turns to face Selene. A deafening shriek emanates from its jaws before it tries to gore her on its horns again. Her magic is still far from her, the more powerful spells capable of taking it down out of reach beneath the pressure of the labyrinth. She presses back against a wall, claws digging into a mechanism as the muscles in her legs tense.

The beast strikes, and she jumps.

Her wings spread out behind her while she is in the air, the beast momentarily dazed from the trap in the wall torn open from the force of her grip. She lands on its back, pulling the long curved tooth from the last creature to hunt her from her belt and raising it high overhead. 

She whispers a silent prayer- because it is not the beasts fault, only a creature created in grief and anger and trying to survive - and drives the tooth straight into the soft flesh on the back of its neck. It lets out a scream, and Selene holds the tooth in place, forcing it deeper and deeper as the blood splatters over her and the lightning turns to sparks. Finally, the crackle of magic in the air dissipates as the beast crashes down.

 

She waits.

She sits, feels the warmth of the beasts blood dripping down the bridge of her nose as she counts to ten. The third one to be sent had been given regenerative abilities based in necromancy, and it had nearly ended her while her back was turned. Not a mistake she is willing to make again, so she clings to her adrenaline and her tension until she is confident the creature has no shred of life left to it.

Once she is satisfied, she wiggles the tooth back out of the beasts corpse and ties it securely back to her belt before sliding down and off. Her feet land on the cold stone, and she moves carefully around the body, eyeing it for pieces she can use to help her in the coming days. The fur of course could help keep her warm when she hits the colder areas, but she has no thread or needle at the moment-perhaps she could find something in the remains of the trap that could work though- and there might even be a weapon she could fashion from its horns, or a sort of torch she could make to break through the darkness if she can just figure out how it works.

She wipes her hands off on her tunic, turning back towards where the trap had been.

A cawing sound breaks out over her head, and she freezes. Slowly, she raises her face, and sees a spirit disguised as a large black bird sitting on the wall where the trap had been.

 

“There’s usually a larger break between attacks,” She says to it. “Getting impatient?”

 

“No,” It responds-and in truth, she hadn’t been expecting it to- “Just watching. Most runners have perished by now.”

“That’s cheerful,” She grumbles. “Sorry for taking up so much of your time, I know this whole ‘clinging to life’ thing must really be cutting in to your time to plan out more attacks and murders of innocent people.”

 

“You appear more dragon-like today,” They note instead of acknowledging her. “Perhaps that is aiding you in your survival?”

Selene shrugs, glancing briefly down to her claws and the scales growing up her arms. “Certainly isn’t hurting anything.”

 

“If you remain more dragon than elf for too long, it will drive you mad.”

Selene scoffs. “No it won’t. Who told you that lie, the evanuris?”

The bird blinks, head tilting curiously. “Yes.”

Selene blinks, slightly thrown by the admission. “Well…they lied. So long as you keep your magic controlled, there’s no danger to the form.”

“Curious then, that you remain an elven silhouette. Why not make the full shift?”

Selene gestures vaguely to the walls around her “You see a lot of space around here for a full sized dragon to move around? Because I sure don’t. Most of the beasts are able to be taken down because they keep making these giant fear-inspiring creatures. But in this terrain, the narrow halls that’ve been built? Smaller is better in a fight.”

“Your fighting skill is also a sizable asset, I imagine.”

“Careful,” Selene says, raising an eyebrow and cocking her hip to one side “That’s almost a compliment. That would be treason around here you know.”

 

The spirits head tilts back in the opposite direction before a spout opens out from the wall. “You are covered in blood that is likely corrosive,” they evade. “This water is clean; I will fetch a pair of washed robes while you bathe. You may also drink from it, if you require.”

Selene stares distrustfully at the water. “And I’m just supposed to believe that?”

“You do not have to,” The spirit says. “But the opportunity is there, just the same.”

 

It flies off of the wall, vanishing into the false sky above them before she can press it for more information. The spout remains in the wall, a steady stream of water pouring out of it and soaking into the stone beneath.

Well.

Reprieves here are far and few between. Best to take advantage of it for the moment.


	3. Aspect AU (Drabbles)

She can’t react, when he is brought before them.

If they are to pull off this charade, there can be no tells. Nothing to posit that she existed before the people knew her as an aspect of the Lord Dirthamen.

 

So she remains still and unflinching and recedes into herself only enough to become numb as her father is brought before the throne.

Traded over when she had been.

Brought before her now ( _the daughter he thinks is already dead, here to send him to his own_ ) on charges of neglect of care, and treason.

 

Refusal to heal ( _one of the guards who had dragged her into the labyrinth so long ago, she notes_ ) and spreading lies about the Lord Dirthamen.

 

( _Not lies so much as incomplete truths. He does play games with his people on occasion; she is proof of that. But he is not wasteful with them, and certainly less so than their previous Lady Sylaise, in any case_ ).

 

The laws for these charges are very clear.

 

_(Papae._ _**Papae** _ _! She had screamed while he stared back with nothing but disappointment, as she was dragged to what she expected to be her death.)_

 

There can be no exceptions without consequence.

 

( _Meet your end with dignity, he had said. Do not be a discredit to our family._ )

 

Her finger taps thrice on the marble armrest as she casts her judgment.

Lord Dirthamens judgment, as it will be recorded.

 

( _ **Come with me**_ _, he had called, dragging her from the tar before it could drown her entirely._

_She still wonders if a piece of her died there, lost in the dark and the depths that still haunt her nightmares._ )

 

“The law is clear. Elrogathe, you will be the next runner,” she commands, inclining her head to one of the guards stationed near the doorway. “Please send instructions to have the labyrinth prepared for the morning.”

 

An armored head nods, and the body is gone before she returns to meet her fathers ( _You don’t have a father anymore, she reminds herself, burying herself further and further within_ ) glare. Where he gazes up at her with disdain, and hate, and more passion than she ever saw in him when he was promised only life.

Ironic that he would give it now, in death.

 

( _Years of accomplishment, of discovery, of growth and trying, trying, trying to make him proud. To make him smile, to make him treat her like his daughter, like he loved her. Please, Papae,_ _ **please**_ _, some part of her pleads._ )

 

“May you meet your end with dignity.” She extols, before rising and making her exit from the cold of the throne room.

The mask is stifling, today.

* * *

The connection is overwhelming, at times.

Her time in the Dreaming is less than restful, when she falls too deeply into one of the other aspects. When the lies become too much, and she drifts too closely to Deceit, requiring time alone, isolated, to remind herself of who she is. That she is, despite all public appearances, a separate being.

Fear can be harder to pull herself out of.

 

She is drowning, most often. In water, words, tar and shadow.

Back in the labyrinth, twisted around her. More potent in the dreaming, harder to break away from. Traps and tricks she had bested in her run still reach and snatch at her. Her feet bleed as she moves, climbing walls and archways, while unmarred skin turns to stone.

She falls ( _she always falls, no matter which path she tries to take_ ) and the pitch begins to fill her nostrils, her mouth, her lungs. The muscles in her back spasm as she tries to force herself to fly, to move, to escape this end, but she is swallowed by the tar, too bright lights swallowed by the bubbling pit as it devours her, drowning, drowning…

 

And each night, she is taken from the pit, tar turned to feathers. Soft and plush as the oil slips away from it and she is left in an embrace staring back at a pair of worried eyes.

“That is farther than you should have wandered,” they warn her.

 

And each time, she wakes with a gasp, alone in their bed.

To don the mask, and begin again.


	4. Raised By Sharkbait AU

“There is a problem,” Mana’Din had told them, yesterday.

“I have a report from Teldeth’an, the largest settlement we have near the border with Ghilan’nain’s territories. It is from the regional manager,” she had carried on, and Uthvir had immediately begun to consider the possible issues. Another renegade experiment from Ghilan’nain’s territories. More insurgent activities. Peacekeepers crossing the border without leave.

“Apparently, a few years ago, several couples living there had their petitions for parenthood approved. The region is sparsely populated, but, being where it is, the smaller villages and outposts were deemed too vulnerable to safely support families. Petitioners were required to move to Teldeth’an as a condition of approval, at least until their children reached legal adulthood. The settlement has warded walls, which are a necessity for the area – although they have been known to distress elves who were formerly kept in the camps.”

Uthvir had shifted a little, and redirected their train of thought.

“A family whose parents are formerly from the camp have left the settlement early?” they surmised.

Mana’Din had nodded.

“So it would seem,” she confirmed. “Ordinarily, I would let local guards and scouts track them down and then deal with sorting things out from there. But… I suspect this may be a very sensitive issue. The family in question consists of a father and his infant daughter. Elrogathe and Sulvuna.”

Uthvir had blinked.

“He named her ‘alive’?” they asked. And here they had thought their own propensity to just call babies ‘baby’ was bad.

Mana’Din shrugged, and nodded.

“So it would seem,” she confirmed. “The baby had a mother when the petition was approved, but, according the regional manager, she had a difficult pregnancy and did not recover, despite the successful birth. She eventually became nonresponsive, and was placed into uthenera, with the agreement of her partner. That was several months ago. Now Elrogathe has taken his baby and fled Teldeth’an.”

Uthvir inclined their head.

“The death of the mother may have renewed old traumas,” they had supposed. “He may have fled the settlement in some desperate effort to rescue his daughter from a place too much like a slave camp, to some part of his mind.”

“My thinking precisely,” Mana’Din agreed. “If that is the case, this should be delicately handled. Even more than usual. Elrogathe and Sulvuna are welcome to relocate, if it makes things easier. We can find them another safe place that is less objectionable, or liable to dredge up unpleasant memories. Or work something else out. But first we need to find them. The region is not hospitable to defenseless babies or lone elves trying to look after them.”

Uthvir had bowed, understanding their apparent assignment.

“I will go myself,” they promised. They could have sent an agent, but, few of their agents were familiar with how to manage infant care in perilous situations; and the younger ones were less apt to understand the kind of trauma which this Elrogathe might be experiencing, they had thought. Some might look at the situation and simply become incensed at the potential endangerment of a child, without consideration for other factors at play.

Uthvir had considered taking Lavellan and Thenvunin and running for the wilds many times over themselves, in the past. They knew the kind of thinking involved; they could understand how that might seem safer than staying in a supposedly-secure settlement.

They had tried not to build up any preconceived notions. But going into it, to some degree, they had expected to sympathize with Elrogathe, at least to a degree. They head to Teldeth’an, to get some information on the man – though few of his neighbours seem to have any. All they manage to gather is that Elrogathe is worryingly reclusive, and the Sulvuna is a very cute baby, who is often looked after by her neighbours and not her father.

The little family’s home bears no signs of having had a third occupant, despite the recent nature of the mother – Dhaveira – falling into uthenera. There is a little nursery, and a main bedroom, and a living space overtaken by some sort of herbalism workshop. Several of the plants are most definitely unsuited for being around small children.

Uthvir frowns, at that.

A few of the local spirits whisper of grief, though, and they suppose that if Sulvuna spent most of her time out of the house, or else in her little nursery, then it would not be  _so_ dangerous.

_Much too dangerous for babies,_ Fear insists.  _Table is too low. Cabinets are not secured. Broken glass on the floor._

The latter could be recent. They check it; it looks to be. A fallen measuring glass. Whatever was inside seems to have been cleaned up by ambient spellwork. They wonder if Elrogathe is the distracted type. Perhaps the man simply left most of the details of researching childcare to his partner, and has not adjusted to her absence. A little education on how to child-proof a home would surely help, they think.

The spirits lend them a hand in tracking some of Elrogathe’s movements. He left the settlement by night, with Sulvuna in a basket. Keeping off the main roads and away from bright lights. It doesn’t take them long, once they are outside of the walls, to guess at his general intent – his direction, should he keep it steady, will take him through the wilds and off towards the territory’s largest river. The escape route of choice, for those seeking to flee to the Nameless.

Uthvir would let him. Mana’Din would likely instruct them to, if not for the baby. That journey is too arduous for an infant. And there is little reason to make it when Sulvuna is so tiny, not when there are no deathly hounds actually snapping at Elrogathe’s heels.

They track the man. Begrudgingly, they can admit that he is fairly good at covering his progress. The spirits outside of the city have clearly been offered encouragements to mislead anyone seeking him out, or at least to not aid them, and they find very few tracks. Most seem to have been covered. Still, Uthvir does not need to know Elrogathe’s exact path. There are few areas of terrain that would be traversable by a burdened traveller, and the man was not, by most accounts, a talented athlete.

And babies often drop things.

Uthvir finds a small, soft little doll, lying in a stray fern alongside a weathered animal trail. They pick it up, and clean it off with a whisper, before pocketing it.

Of more concern are the signs of primates in the area. The bestiary they had helped revise had made reference to white-furred apes in this section of wilds, and several of their scouts had confirmed their continued presence. Another failed attempt of Ghilan’nain’s, left to scatter to the winds and populate this land. The apes are communal and omnivorous, and known to eat meat. Aggressively territorial, by reports, but preliminary scouts had confirmed that they didn’t range very far from their base hunting grounds, and therefore were not an immediate danger to any settlements. Given the number of matters already demanding attention, Uthvir had penned a warning to the regional managers, and the merchant travellers and local outposts, and moved on to more pressing issues.

Now they almost wish that they had come to investigate themselves. The path Elrogathe seems to have chosen in the thick of things leads where they suppose he wants it to, and is clearer than most – because the apes, it seems, have been clearing it. They spot white fur on some of the stickier foliage, and unripened fruit trees, and hear cries that might be mistaken for birds; but are almost assuredly not.

And then, after about an hour more of tracking, they hear the distinctive, piercing wail of an infant.

They are off like a shot, thinking fast as they veer down a side path and follow the sound of the wail. Fear rises up, and catches tendrils of panic.  _Monster. Scary! Bad monster!_

The sounds of low, threatening primate noises follow after. Some crashing through the brush around them, and so Uthvir hastens themselves, and flits in through the darker spaces between tress, until they spot the man. Elrogathe, it must be. He looks gaunt and slightly wild-eyed, clutching a basket from which they can see one tiny, wavering fits, as three white apes – a little more than half his own size, but that does not seem any less menacing, with the length of their teeth – make aggressive displays and corner him against a root-strewn wall. Some old remnant of pre-Arlathan days, long since taken over by the forest, and the probably the apes themselves.

The beasts are still posturing, though, so Uthvir does a quick assessment. Three by Elrogathe, at least four coming to join them, and one or two more still crashing towards the sounds of the confrontation. Taking their focus off of Elrogathe would seem to be the priority. Kill the biggest, they think; hope it’s also the most aggressive, or that the death is enough to startle the rest, either way. They could probably take them all on, but it would be trickier to protect Elrogathe and Sulvuna if it came to that. The man’s pack looks to have been torn off of him, supplies strewn around the little clearing; if the babe’s food supply has been lost, they will need to get her back to the settlement swiftly.

They are about to move, when Elrogathe tosses the basket.

Uthvir’s heart leaps into their throat, as the baby’s wails warble, and the basket skitters across the leaf litter in front of the apes.

Several things happen at once, then.

Elrogathe turns to flee.

Fear surges up in a rush of panic.

And for one brief, confused moment of impulses, it is not an unknown baby in the basket, offered up to monsters. It is Lavellan. Uthvir is moving before they are thinking, lost to a roar inside of their own ears. The three apes do not manage to lay hands on the basket; their necks snap in a flurried rush of darkness, and the sounds in forest quiet in almost stunned silence, as their bodies drop. Uthvir does not recollect crossing the distance to the basket. But they lift it up, as the remaining apes flee in terror; as that same terror surges through the air, mingling with Lavellan’s as her wailing turns to absolutely hysterical sobs.

Elrogathe freezes, barely a few steps away, and stares wide-eyed at Uthvir.

Whose…  _nature,_  is not subtly depicted.

It takes them a long, frigid moment to wrestle Fear back down.

_You are making it worse for the baby._

_Lavellan!_

_It is not Lavellan, it is Sulvuna._

_He tried to kill the baby!_

The fear behind that provokes enough  _anger,_  at least, that Uthvir is able to get ahold of themselves. They suck in a deep breath, eyes fixed on Elrogathe, and gradually push Fear further towards the Dreaming again. Unhinging its tendrils from the air, and gently untangling it from Sulvuna’s immature, visceral panic.

_He saw…_

Yes.

Yes, he did.

Elrogathe stays where he is, at least.

“You…” he begins, barely audible over his daughter’s cries. “You are an abomination.”

It strikes Uthvir that they have never heard it said aloud before.

The man is injured, and they are still deep in ape territory. They see no weapons on him. They turn their attention away from him, after a moment, and back to the screaming baby. She does not even look much like Lavellan, they note, with some distant wryness. Her face is wet and red from her wailing, and her hair is pale and tufty. A bit like Thenvunin’s, though the colour is different. She sobs with the whole-body ferocity of an infant, but hiccups and stills just a little as Uthvir reaches a hand into the basket. Then she clutches at their fingers, desperately.

_Baby…_

Uthvir rubs her torso, through the blanket she’s half escaped. An unpleasant odour informs them that the basket lacks for cleaning charms. It is probably not helping the baby calm down any, either. They put it down just so that they can reach in and pull her out. There is no good place to set her down, so they make do with some gentle cleaning charms that they know will work, instead, and then unfasten their pauldrons, so that they can hold her against their shoulder.

Elrogathe starts to move, then. But uncertainly. Wavering.

He is afraid of them.

_Good._

Uthvir takes the baby with them, and moves to investigate the scattered remnants from the man’s pack. Most of it has been torn apart by the apes, it seems. Food is gone, and a few packets they recognize as the sort for holding milk have been ransacked, too. Sulvuna presses her face against their neck and clutches their hair in one tiny fist, and her cries taper off as sheer exhaustion defeats them. They rock her, a little, and rub at her back. Encouraging the shift towards sleep.

Near the a tattered fold of torn leather, they find a small vial of sedative.

Uthvir has no idea if that particularly tincture is safe for a child. They would not experiment with it. But given the unlikelihood that a man trekking through several miles of forest would want to sedate himself, and the signs of use on the bottle, they suspect that Elrogathe was willing to take that chance.

Again, in their mind’s eye, the basket skitters towards the apes.

…They do not think they sympathize with this man very much after all.

“We were heading for Daran,” Elrogathe finally says, straightening up a little. Deciding not to run, it seems.

Uthvir gives him an unimpressed glance.

“Daran,” they drawl. “By way of ape-infested wilderness. As opposed to the crossroads, or the main roads, or even the relatively new aerial routes?”

They spot one of the apes. Watching at range. Uthvir gestures, and some of the ground in front of it sparks, and the beast takes off and hastens out of sight.

“I did not know about the apes,” Elrogathe says. “I am an herbalist. I thought to collect supplies while we travelled.”

He takes a step closer.

Just a small one; but it gets Uthvir’s attention back on him again.

“That is my daughter,” he says.

Sulvuna is warm and heavy against their shoulder. Uthvir stares at Elrogathe, whose lips thin, after a moment. His gaze is very steely.

“She would not have survived the forest without me. She is an infant,” he says. “If I had kept her, the apes would have killed us both. I chose logically. Not lightly.”

“Logically,” Uthvir says. “One does not flee from a safe settlement in the dead of night with their vulnerable child, to risk death and dismemberment at the hands of Ghilan’nain’s strays.”

Elrogathe’s jaw clenches. His gaze traces over the markings on Uthvir’s face. Elrogathe’s own are bared darkly on his forehead.

“You are an abomination,” he reiterates. “You have your own business, I am sure. Give me my daughter, and we will go. We will take your secret away with us.”

“Hmm,” Uthvir muses, nodding in consideration. “So I give you the baby, and you take the baby on a… four, five day trip, by foot, through further wilderness, which you are  _not_ adept at navigating. Get on a boat – presuming there actually  _is_  a boat waiting for you, and that neither of you starve, die of exposure, or are eaten by beast in the meanwhile – and sail to Nameless territory, where you will still be alive and well and in position of knowledge that could get me killed.” They tilt their head, and find they lack the levity required to even raise a skeptical eyebrow.

“That seems like a longer shot than just reporting that the apes killed you,” they reason.

Elrogathe  _does_  try to run, then. Perhaps realizing that he is very much out of cards to play.

Uthvir feels guilty enough about killing him that they make certain he is dead before they begin to dismember him; letting Fear scatter his parts fort he apes to find. But the guilt abates considerably when they recollect the sight of that basket skittering towards sharp teeth; and also when Elrogathe attempts to defend himself by flinging a few deadly spells in their direction, while they are holding the baby.

Sulvuna fusses a bit over the light show. But it does not last for very long.

When it is done, Uthvir goes and uses a spell to clean up her basket for her. They search Elrogathe’s person and find a single bottle of infant’s milk, and know they will have to travel light and fast. So they leave the ape corpses to their kin, and bring the sedative along – just in case it should prove to have some lasting, detrimental effect – and then begin to make their way back.

It quickly becomes apparent that Sulvuna does not do nearly as well in her basket as she does on their shoulder. She sleeps for much of the trek, too spent to do elsewise, but the forest is loud and Uthvir must climb a few steep hills in places, and so their gait is not as even as it could be. She wakes sooner than she probably should, fussy and out-of-sorts, and obviously hungry. Uthvir opts for speed rather than rationing, and feeds her bottle to her – one eye on the wilderness, walking along as they do. She’s big enough to help hold the bottle, at least.

Her eyes are green.

Also like Thenvunin’s.

Uthvir puts her back in the basket to try and keep her covered – the sun is high overhead, now, and they have no hat for her – but this leads to grumpy crying and kicking, and little broken sounds until they sigh, and pull her back out again.

She clings to them very tightly when they settle her onto their shoulder, though. Her emotions a turmoil of confused unhappiness and the looming return of her terror. Uthvir summons up a wisp of magic to try and distract her. A little ball of light, that turns into a tiny, fat bird, and wings around them.

Sulvuna blinks, and then watches it with her wide, little eyes. Reaching a hand towards it whenever it zips close by.

“There,” Uthvir says, rubbing her back. “Not so bad now, hm? Nanae’s got you.”

It does not strike them, what they have said, until after they have said it.

_Habit,_  they remind themselves. Most definitely a habit.  They clear their throat, and are somewhat glad that the only witness to their slip-up was little Sulvuna herself; and she does not even know enough to recognize it. She just watches the little light bird until she falls asleep again, and then Uthvir can get her back into her basket, which is much easier to carry and slightly more fortifiable in the event of disaster.

They manage to reach Teldeth’an without any more aggression from the local wildlife, at least. It is late, by then, and Sulvuna is clearly hungry. She chews on one of their fingers as they bring her back inside the settlement’s walls, and manage to commandeer one of the manager’s assistants to go and get some more milk for her. The regional manager offers to take her, but Uthvir brushes off the suggestion. With Elrogathe dead and – though likely, in fact, traumatized – also questionable in his proficiency as a parent, the time for delicate handling has now been surpassed by the need for an official investigation. How was his petition selected, what sorts of safeguards and assessments did the regional manager perform, and why was the situation not dealt with sooner?

Uthvir asks several of these questions themselves, as the regional manager grows increasingly contrite and obviously unnerved.

“Elrogathe was an herbalist,” he explains. “And a healer. A good one! He seemed to recover from the camps more swiftly than most of us. Very organized, very methodical. Dhaveira had… more obvious problems, but, most everyone does, and she was gentle. Their first petition was not approved, in fact. The auditor in charge of such things felt that their demeanours made them less ideal than others. But they were on the roster for many years, and Elrogathe felt that having a child might help Dhaveira focus on living again. He asked me if I would circumvent the auditor for him, as a personal favour.”

Uthvir blinks, somewhat surprised by the admission. But the manager is looking at little Sulvuna with increasing distress.

“I never thought he would do anything other than treasure her. I certainly never imagined that it would just make Dhaveira worse; or that he would do something so reckless, as to take off into the  _wilds_  with a  _baby.”_

They let out a long breath.

“Were there reports of concerning behaviour before now?” they ask.

The manager ducks their head.

“Some,” he concedes. “I have them, still, in the archives. You have to understand. Even with the efforts towards population replenishment, having a child is still a limited boon. Jealousy is not uncommon. Neither is scheming to discredit another parent and take their place.”

Uthvir shakes their head a little, and looks the manager in the eye.

“This does not look good,” they inform him. In reward for his own frankness. “But the honesty is helping. Show me the reports.”

Sulvuna sucks on her bottle, and the manager gives her an uncertain glance, before looking at Uthvir again and then ducking into a bow.

“Of course,” he agrees.

They do not look over the reports too much that evening, anyway. It is a bit awkward, with a baby in their arms. But they take them, and they keep a close eye on Sulvuna, checking for rashes or signs of laboured breathing, or other telltale clues that she might be having a bad reaction to the sedatives she was potentially given. They acquire a room for the evening, and send a messenger back to Daran with missives for both Mana’Din and Thenvunin, informing them of the situation. Little Sulvuna sleeps on them, which seems to soothe her, as they take their own time to rest and contemplate the situation.

They had almost forgotten how comforting it could be to simply hold a sleeping baby. Listen to little breaths and heartbeats, and feel that warm bundle against their chest.

Sulvuna does not cry when she wakes up a few times during the night. She does sniffle, a few times, and little puffs of confusion persist with her, but the visceral distress from before does not return. Uthvir keeps her clean and fed, and offers her some appropriate distractions. There had been few toys in Elrogathe’s house, but they have the one they recovered from the trail, and Sulvuna burbles happily over it and promptly shoves it into her mouth before waving it about. And some of her neighbours have accumulated several toys and blankets and things which she also recognizes.

Uthvir nearly leaves her with a trio who had been her most frequent babysitters. But they have a child of their own, too, not much older, and even with three of them, it seems irresponsibly to leave a baby in the care of adults who cannot give her their sole attention. And the investigation is still ongoing, anyway, and Sulvuna does not seem to mind terribly much when Uthvir scoops her back up again, and gets her ready to through the eluvian.

She does not seem to  _like_  the crossroads, but she is not distressed by it the same way Lavellan used to be.

So that is something, at least.

But she wails when Uthvir tries to put her into the basket, and they figure that whole concept might just be ruined for her. So they carry her in their arms, instead, as they make the trek back to Daran. Thenvunin is waiting for them at the palace eluvian, when they arrive. They barely have time to get out of the entryway before he descends on them, clucking at Sulvuna, who looks at his bright blue and green robe with wide eyes and then tries to yank at his earrings. Thenvunin is prepared for her, though, and is wearing the charmed kind, that make little fingers slide harmlessly away instead.

“Oh, you poor thing!” Thenvunin exclaims. “What a travesty, oh my, goodness, what a sweet baby! Hello darling. Here, here, let me take her, you must be  _exhausted.”_  So saying, Thenvunin sweeps in and gathers Sulvuna out of Uthvir’s arms. They feel a rush of relief. She had not even been that heavy. But Thenvunin is clearly already taken with her, and moreso by the minute, and.

Well.

If  _Thenvunin_  wants to keep the baby…

They shake their head a little, and attempt to clear their thoughts, while Sulvuna makes curious-protest noises at her inability to yank off Thenvunin’s earrings, and then starts burbling at him.

“I should see Mana’Din,” Uthvir reasons.

Thenvunin leans over and kisses their cheek. They blink, but he just pulls back after a moment, and nods at them.

“Of course,” he says. “I had the nursery all made up again, it should be perfectly suitable for little…?”

He trails off, and Uthvir realizes that they neglected to include the baby’s name in their letter to him the night before.

“Sulvuna,” they say.

Thenvunin’s nose wrinkles.

“What?” he says, a little sharply. Sulvuna’s expression turns uncertain. But it evens out again when Thenvunin bounces her a bit. “Who names a baby  _that?_  Ridiculous! That is setting the bar much too low. No, that name absolutely will not do. We will have to think of something else to call her, at least for the meanwhile…”

Uthvir shrugs. They have no investment in the name; and there is probably no stopping Thenvunin, anyway. They feel a rush of warm fondness as he fusses over the baby, and then sweeps up their bag, and starts fussing over the supplies they brought, too.

“Where are all her clothes?” he wonders.

“In there,” Uthvir informs him.

He looks aghast.

“So few!” he laments. “Well. Luckily, we can fix that. Name, clothes, food, toys – I am going to have to make a list.”

“Try not to get too attached,” Uthvir cautions. “We do not know where she is going yet.”

Thenvunin nods, a little too quickly.

“Of course,” he agrees. “Of course, absolutely, but, well. She is a baby. She needs looking after, she can hardly just be put into a drawer somewhere until this investigation is done with.”

“Right,” Uthvir agrees.

They finally manage to pull themselves away from the sight of Thenvunin tutting over the baby – the baby with the fair hair and green eyes and round cheeks and such a curious little gaze – and go to deliver their full report to Mana’Din, and begin setting the necessary investigation into motion. The regional manager will probably be demoted. Unless something else turns up, Uthvir thinks they will recommend leniency; the man genuinely seemed remorseful. They will have to keep things relatively quiet in order to avoid word getting as far as Elgar’nan’s people that there was some ‘former camp slave’ off ‘endangering babies’, however.

Most likely, one or more of Elrogathe’s neighbours will petition to take in the baby.

Of course, a case could be made against such things. Teldeth’an may be in need of reconsideration for their auditing process for parental petitions, and in the time that would take, the baby would be older and she would probably not benefit from a lot of upheaval. It may be wise, in light of her father’s death, to find her a permanent home sooner rather than later.

They will have to discuss it with their illustrious leader, they suppose.

~

Thenvunin names her ‘Selenenastelaseth’.

Uthvir shortens it to ‘Selene’, with sincerest apologies to the former Sulvuna, who is, of course, too young to know that her papae has just saddled her with a tongue-twister for a name.

A very,  _very_  loving tongue-twister.


	5. Raised by Sharkbait AU (Masquerade)

Selenenastelaseth has never been to a proper party in the capital before.

Her parents have always fretted too much, and managed to come up with excuse after excuse for her not to attend. Too young, too innocent, or too excited with the prospect that a dance in Arlathan would sway towards her notions of romance rather then the responsibility that it is.

And it  _is_  a responsibility for her Father and Nanae, she will concede.

That does not stop it from being a  _romantic_  one.

Her father helps her to commission a beautiful dress from one of their tailors with the addendum that it must cover  _all_  of her legs, and that is not so bad she thinks, because a proper cut and it could almost make them seem  _longer_ , which is very much her style. She gets it in red, because she has learned from her Nanae that red is an aggressive color and the cloak that billows out from her hips when she walks in it gives her more of a commanding presence than most people would be willing to chance. Feathers are enchanted and lain over her rib-cage and a matching set are accessorized to rest on her collar bones. Small stones are sewn across, with a thick choker to match and the all-important mask in a matching scarlet complete the outfit for the evenings masquerade.

 

“You are not to give out your name,” Her nanae instructs. “If you become uncomfortable, or if someone lays a hand on you, find myself or your father immediately.”

“Are you saying you don’t think I can defend myself?” she retorts.

“We are saying there will be elves in attendance you should not pick fights with,” Her father argues. “You cannot punch every leering elf in Arlathan; your nanae would know.”

“I’m really more of a kicker these days,” Selene muses. “The points on these shoes are  _very_ sharp. I’m sure I could at least do enough damage to keep them from following me if I needed to run.”

“ _Please_  do not draw blood tonight,” her father pleads.

“Though remember to aim for the tendons if the escape plan is necessary,” Uthvir adds. “And then  _find_  me.”

“Fine,” Selene sighs reluctantly. “If I find myself in danger, I promise to notify you before the peacekeepers can catch me.”

“ _Selene-_ ”

“I’m only joking papae. You know they’ve never caught me.”

–

The party is  _wonderful_.

Starlight is strewn across the ceiling, long draped curtains in every window billowing with a breeze that keeps the dance floor from becoming overly heated. Selene dances with nearly every elf that asks, laughing and drinking and exchanging words without weight. Quips and jokes and respectful pleasantries to those she identifies as above her rank. There are rivers of wine carved into the walls that never empty, though she is careful to limit herself to glasses of her own making, and not those offered by dance partners.

After a few hours, her feet begin to tire, and her face is feeling flushed and even the passing breeze is no longer enough to comfortably cool her. She excuses herself to the gardens, leaving her wine and her new friends behind for a breath of cool, largely natural, air.

 

The garden here is much larger than her fathers. Large, blooming trees seem to stretch for miles, into plains covered in vibrantly luminescent flowers. Though upon closer inspection she is disappointed to discover some of the size is a complex spacial spell, it is still very beautiful to look at.

And her inspection brings up yet another discrepancy in the garden.

A few yards away, there is a raven perched in a tree.

Or at least, someone trying very hard to appear to be a raven.

 

“Are you a spy?” She asks, arms folded behind her back as she peers up at the creature.

The ravens beak clacks, and its head tilts before it pretends to be ignoring her again.

“I suppose you would not tell me if you were,” She continues “But it was a poor hiding place to choose, if your goal was to go unnoticed. You  _are_  a rather large blob of black within the pale pinks and blues and yellows The Lady Sylaise has had planted here.”

The raven caws, beak clacking again without turning its head.

But she can see their eyes on her now.

 

“I know you are not a bird,” She announces. “The dreaming is shifted around you too strongly for that. Are you an elf, then? Or a spirit?”

Silence follows her question.

She shrugs. “The energy distortion around you is subtle,” She concedes. “But still present.”

 

“They are not spying,” Announces a voice from behind her, so sudden that it nearly startles her as she spins to face them. “And we are not hiding.”

Her stranger is wearing a long, dark cloak. Feathers cover their neck and shoulder, matching those of the ‘raven’ above, and most of their form is hidden beneath more layers than even her own extensive closet would normally permit. Their mask is exceedingly plain, in comparison with many in attendance, though filled with enchantments she hasn’t yet read about. But they are finely tailored, and nearly as tall as she is in her heels, and there is something very lonely about their aura that pulls at her heart.

 

“You were invited to the party, then?” She asks.

They nod.

“Not a dancer?” She teases, mouth quirking slightly upwards.

“I am not often overtaken by the music played at these events,” They admit. “I am a passable dancer; not a talented one.”

“There are lots of elves dancing in there with very little talent for it,” She points out. “Perhaps you’re just more taken with the sights in the garden?”

“They do seem to have improved significantly, in recent moments.”

 

Selene feels her face begin to heat at the compliment, her hands falling to her sides to fiddle with the material of her dress and calm her nerves.

“How did you recognize Deceit?” The elf asks.

“I am more familiar with birds and spies than the average elf,” She admits with a smile. “Truthfully, if they were any other animal I would have likely ignored it, but I have spent many morning shooing unwelcome spirits from my fath-…from a local garden that houses its own specific fowl. It is an old habit by now.”

 

They nod again, seemingly satisfied with her answer.

“Which garden might that be?” they ask.

Selene remembers her Nanaes rules and taps pointedly on the edge of her mask. “I think it’s cheating if I tell you,” She teases. “Does it matter where I am from, nearly so much as it matters that I am here,now?”

They let out a soft laugh, at that.

 

A laugh that grows, and grows, their head eventually tilted back as their aura becomes less and less tense and a warm sensation overcomes the garden that makes her feel slightly weak in her knees as it envelops her in turn.

_A sound more beautiful than any orchestra,_  she thinks as the romantic elements of the moment strike her again.

 

“I apologize,” They finally say, coughing into a gloved fist as they attempt to compose themselves once again.

“Nothing to apologize for. You have a very dazzling laugh,” she assures them “But if you truly feel as though you owe me something…” She holds out her hand, head tilted slightly as she smiles widely at them, still warm from the sound of their laugh. “You could always come and dance with me.”

Their hand reaches for hers, hovering just slightly above it. Close enough that she can feel the heat of them radiating into her palm. “Are you sure that is what you would like?”

“I doubt I could ever regret a dance with a stranger so handsome as you,” she winks.

 

His hand fills hers, as they follow the dim sound of the music back inside; to the ballroom, to the party, and to each of the elves still inside.

–

It is no wonder he is so closely acquainted with a spirit of Deceit she thinks; he is in fact, a  _very_  talented dancer.

His movements are perfectly in time with the music, and each time he spins her she is caught effortlessly as she giggles and smiles back at him, caught up in the euphoria of the moment so much that it feels as though they are the only ones dancing in the whole room. 

The world falls away around them as the lights dim and they are left with the starlight above to light their way, illuminating intricate details in his cloak and outfit as spirits of silence follow in their steps and they exchange further flirtations and stories until the song finally comes to its end. He lifts her from the dip they had ended in, face still barely a breath away from her own, and she takes a moment to mourn that he had chosen a full face mask for the event rather than a half like her own, because it means she cannot close the distance to press her lips to his own in the way she thinks she would like to.

He glances over her shoulder at someone, and presses the back of her hand to the space where his lips might be all the same.

“I’m afraid I have something I must attend to,” He apologizes. “May I find you, later?”

“Anytime,” She agrees, bowing her head respectfully as he takes his leave.

 

She lets out a dreamy sigh, content and warm in the fuzzy, affectionate feeling from only a moment ago, before she feels a familiar presence at her side.

“We need to go home,” her nanae informs her.

Selene feels her face drop. “But Nanae-!” she begins to argue before she sees the tension in their shoulders, the spike in their aura, and the displeased look on her fathers face behind them.

“…alright,” she relents without further arguments, casting one last look at the space where her mysterious partner had vanished.

–

Several more weeks pass, and Selenes life returns to normal. Her dance partner a fond memory and a lost cause, as no one seems to have any idea who they might have been. Each time she tries to ask, she is rebuffed with excuses; no one saw him, or they only have vague memories of the evening, and isn’t-there-something-else-she-should-be-doing-right-now.

 

She has just barely begun to accept the idea that she will likely never find him again, when she finds a raven that isn’t a raven in her fathers garden.


	6. Raised by Sharkbait AU (Finding You)

It is a short conversation with the disguised spirit.

 

Apparently she is being asked to Lord Dirthamens lands, though when she asks for what purpose they are particularly vague in details.

They assure her she will be gone no longer than three days.

It means three days away from her posts, but if she is being summoned, then surely her absence has already been cleared with her Lady Mana'din.

 

She leaves a note for her family to keep them from fretting, complete with a doodle of her sword beside her name so that they know she is not leaving unarmed.

She clasps her favorite cape to her shoulder guards, hooks her sheath to her hip, and follows the spirit through the crossroads without hesitation.

Selene has never  _been_  to Lord Dirthamens lands before. Has only been to cities under Mana'dins protections, and her one trip to Arlathan.

It is very exciting to be so far from home, she thinks.

 

The spirit is quiet for much of the journey. They remain a bird, flying a few feet ahead of her and opening the necessary eluvians, until they finally arrive nearest to their destination.

 

She is expecting a meeting hall somewhere. Perhaps someone’s home, or place of business. But the spirit leads her through the gates, and into the castle of Lord Dirthamen himself.

Whoever has summoned her must be very high ranking here, she realizes.

She glances back up at the spirit; a raven, still. Nearly identical to the one she had found in the garden in Arlathan, that had been so close to her mysterious dancing partner.

She wonders…. _hm_.

 

There is very little time to ponder the possibilities, before she hears the music. Low, and slow, and nearly muted through the heavy stone walls. It becomes louder and clearer as she continues behind the spirit, a grin spreading over her face as realization dawns on her and she picks up her pace, sure of her situation before the ‘surprise’ is revealed. Two large doors are pulled open by Lord Dirthamens sentries, revealing a man standing inside of a large ballroom. It has been decorated in a similar manner to the one they had met in, back in Arlathan, and she wonders for a moment if he has actually gone and borrowed some of the decorations for re-use. There are musicians arranged by the back wall, and her dancing partner is staring back at her through his mask. The same one he had worn that night.

_I’d have brought mine if I had known_ , she muses internally as she steps towards him, no longer needing the spirit to show her where to go.

 

She can’t stop her smile from spreading as she moves towards him, sweeping her cape back in a flourish as she moves into a deep bow before he might make yet another grand gesture of his own. He has had enough upper hands for the day, she thinks.

She extends one hand towards him, palm upturned.

He places his own in hers, still gloved as a palpable feeling of  _relief_ emanates from him.

 

“You found me,” She grins as the orchestra strikes up a new song for them.

“When I asked you if I might, you did offer permission,” He points out, following her lead as she glides them through one of the classical steps.

“Still. Sounds like an awful lot of work for a dance,” She teases as she spins him out before pulling him back towards her.

“It was a very memorable dance.”

 

Selene hums in agreement, moving them into a more complicated step. His own cloak billows behind him as they twirl across the dance floor, feathers fluttering across his neck and shoulders. If she had known why she were being summoned, she might’ve worn something more aesthetically pleasing for the occasion. Her armor is meant to cling close to her, to keep from making shadows move in the wind and giving away positions, to be silent during patrols so that her quarry won’t know she is approaching. It is white and stark in contrast to the dark of his gown, the crimson of her cape a brilliant burst of color around them as he briefly changes their position to spin her himself, switching quickly back into the following role as Selene turns back to him with a laugh.

 

“Why did you summon me?” She finally asks as the song comes to an end, her hands resting on his waist, his own settled onto her shoulder and hip.

“I wanted to see you again,” He admits.

Selene laughs again, shaking her head fondly. “You could have come yourself, if you knew where I was. Why didn’t you?”

He hesitates, and she frowns as doubt starts to rise in her gut at the silence.

 

Her eyes dart across his face, and she moves one of her hands up.

“May I see you without the mask?”

He hesitates again, but gives her a slow nod before she can become too uncomfortable.

 

Her fingers carefully tuck beneath his chin, pressing gently between the smooth material of his mask and the skin beneath. The mask falls from his face and lands in her palm. There are four slate blue eyes looking back at her nervously from dark skin that reflects the multicolored lights of the room beautifully. Selene licks her lips anxiously, not in any way off put by the extra features, but concerned about the absence of any kind of markings.

“You don’t have any vallaslin,” She says. Not that he probably needs to be notified of it, surely he  _knows_ already.

“That is true,” He nods.

“…I do not suppose that is because you are so young that you haven’t gained them yet?” Not that that would be a  _better_  situation. It might even be worse, really. But they are alone, in a ballroom, with a private orchestra, and he is very finely dressed. There is an obvious answer as to why he wouldn’t have any markings, even if he were very  _very_ old.

…and he would indeed, she realizes, be  _significantly_  older than herself, if it’s true.

“It is not,” He admits.

 

Selene nods slowly.

For a very long time.

Much longer than she means to.

“You’re Lord Dirthamen, then.” She finally says.

“Yes.”

She nods a bit faster, now, anxiety starting to override her usual confidence.

“That’s great! Congratulations,” She blurts, unsure of how she’s supposed to act. She’s met Mana'din on more than one occasion, but she’s also been assured that the way Mana'din interacts with her people is far from the norm of most of the Evanuris. Selene has never been very good at stopping her mouth when her nerves overtake her though, and they’ve never overtaken her quite so suddenly before, either. Her voice begins to rise in pitch as she continues, “And you were Lord Dirthamen back in Arlathan then, too. When the spirit of Deceit was  _your_  spirit of Deceit. Which means I…called you a spy. Did I ever apologize for that? I didn’t mean any offense or anything, some of my best friends are spies you know-”

“I found it very endearing,” he assures her as her voice starts to crack. “You do not have anything to fear from me.”

“Good, that’s-that’s great! Fantastic. Awesome, really. Not that I was _afraid_  of you. You’re not scary or anything like that-unless you  _want_  to be scary?”

“No, not particularly.”

“Good,” Selene repeats. “Because I don’t think you are.”

“What  _do_  you think I am?” He asks with a slight tilt of his head and a note of curiousity.

This time it is Selene who hesitates.

“…I think you’re very pretty,” She says honestly. “I think you are a very good dancer, and very romantic, and I like serving your daughter so I think you might not be so terrible, really.”

The skin around his cheeks and ears darkens, as his lips quirk up in a small smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

 

Silence pervades for a moment, before the orchestra decides to break it and begins a soft tune around them.

“Would you like to dance again?” He asks. “If you are hungry, or would like to see more of my home, we could do that instead. You are my guest, during your stay here. Most everything is available to you.”

Selene glances back at the orchestra, takes a deep breath, and resolves herself. Just because she knows his name now ( _and what a name it turned out to be_ ) doesn’t change things. He’s still the same man with the beautiful laugh she met in the garden and spoke with at the party. He seems to like the way she’s been behaving around him so far, so…probably there’s really not any danger here.

“I’d love another dance,” She admits, moving back to a starting position with him. “Thank you.”

–

 

She doesn’t expect it to be comfortable.

It’s surprising when it  _is_.

 

When he has food carried in for them, when they discuss current events like old friends, when he lifts her off the ground during one of their dances and she makes an embarrassing  _squeak_ at the motion and he only laughs again and radiates more affection around them.

 

He shows her to one of his gardens, and the two decide to rest together beneath a tree that is probably older than she is, a small stream passing near them that carries all the way down to the river near the base of the mountains.

“Is your job dangerous?” he asks as his shoulder brushes against her own and he readjusts his position slightly against the tree trunk. His mask has been re-affixed to his face since they left the ballroom, but it does not seem to impede their conversation in any way.

“Not really,” Selene shrugs. “It  _can_ be, certainly, but I’m not usually sent on the more dangerous excursions. I mostly stick to a patrol around my lady Mana'dins council chambers and various locations in and around the palace. Most of my job is just shooing people away from places they shouldn’t be.”

“And you enjoy it?”

Selene shifts awkwardly, eyes drifting upwards to leaves above them. “S'okay.”

 

His head tilts, and she glances down to see him staring back up at her. 

“You are lying.”

 

“It’s a good job,” She asserts, because it  _is_ , and her Nanae had been very pleased when she had gotten it. “It’s not, perhaps, what I would like to spend eternity doing. But it is a very honorable position that allows me the freedoms to pursue my hobbies in my off time. The land there is still trying to repair itself; we’re in need of people who can do physical and applicable jobs. There is less of a need for…theoretical positions right now. But one day things will be better, and maybe if I have come up with a real, quantifiable hypothesis by then, I could present it to my lady. And perhaps if it is good enough, she will permit me to do  _real_  research on it.”

Dirthamen rumbles slightly beside her, perked up by her admissions. “Do you have a topic in mind?”

Selene flushes slightly. “Ideally? Yes. Quite a few. I have several journals filled with them, though most will only make minor changes, if any noticeable ones at all. I’ve dropped a few off with those who could use them; equations for magical inputs to help promote growth and necessary erosion in the soil, or to better distribute some of our limited resources. A few were even implemented, which was very gratifying! But change on a large scale takes time, no matter what. And when your basic principles are faulty…”she drifts off, biting down on her bottom lip.

 

“Which principles?” Dirthamen pushes.

“It would be treasonous to say,” Selene sighs. “Even to you.”

“I am very good at keeping secrets,” he notes.

Selene gives him a wry grin.

“You will almost certainly have to keep this one, if I tell it to you.”

 

He nods, suddenly serious as he raises a privacy barrier around them.

She rubs slightly at the back of her neck, the ends of her hair tickling her knuckles as she does. “Elvhen and spiritual sacrifices are a poor energy source,” She says quietly. “It is wasteful, and cruel. There are better options out there, if only we could be given the option to  _find_ them.”

Blue eyes blink from beneath the mask at her, as the air goes suddenly somber. “You truly believe that?”

“I do.”

“Do you have any evidence, to such a claim?”

Her nails scratch at the skin on her neck “…I do. There was a dwarven woman I met once, during a patrol. I was still young, and new, and I had never killed someone before. Nor did I wish to. So I…spoke to her, instead. The dwarves do not sacrifice people and spirits the way we do, but still their cities are powered from deep beneath the earth. They are doing it  _somehow_ , without bloodshed or shattering, which is proof in itself that there is another way. There are  _other_  sources of power, of magic. Perhaps they are even more efficient! There is so much run off from shattered spirits, it is…it is wasteful, and it leaves so many scars….”

“Oftentimes, that runoff finds its way into the dreaming,” Dirthamen explains. “New spirits can be born from it.”

“I am aware. However, many of the spirits in my home have been touched by death. Even if they do not always realize it…” she shakes her head. “The experience lingers. Even as new life sprouts, and new experiences overwrite the old, it does not make them vanish. Those spirits are more likely to succumb to corruption, sprouting from the scars left in the spaces where they pulled themselves back together.”

“They are a risk, then.”

Selenes face scrunches in distaste and tension. “No! It is still a very small percentage that corrupts. Not nearly enough to draw attention to it, unless you are looking for the pattern. There is no reason to give them such a dangerous label. It would only sow panic, and distrust. I only meant it as one possible positive outcome of solving the issue.”

Dirthamen blinks beneath the mask. “I did not mean to offend you. My apologies.”

She lets out a breath, and leans back against the tree. “I forgive you,” She says. “You promised to keep this a secret though, remember.”

He nods in agreement, and the privacy barrier falls away from them.

 

Selene takes a moment to allow herself to be bold,in the aftermath of her admission, and carefully places her hand over his.

“Your home is very beautiful,” She tells him, looking out over the mountain range, the expanse of soft greens beneath their feet, and the river where the two lands meet. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to leave it.”

He stills for a moment, before his fingers find their way between hers, and his head leans against her shoulder.

“I am glad you enjoy it.”

–

 

After her admission in the garden, Dirthamen decides that Selene might enjoy seeing one of his libraries.

He is not wrong.

 

The sun sets and rises while they pour through the aisles together, pointing out their favorites and discussing various subjects as they arise. She is making a mental list of authors and articles to search for when she returns, even knowing this library is far larger than any near her own home.

They are debating over the merits of an old eluvian security measure when Selene lets out a long, rather loud, yawn.

 

“Ah, I forgot to show you to bed,” Dirthamen realizes, glancing up at the afternoon sunlight coming through the windows. “That was inconsiderate of me.”

“It’s fine,” Selene says, covering her mouth as yet another yawn tries to escape. “I’m fine.”

“You should sleep,” He frowns.

“I’ll sleep tonight,” She assures him.

 

Dirthamen seems dubious, but does not push the issue. Instead much of their day is spent doing activities that permit her to sit for long periods of time (although she will concede that some of them are necessary responsibilities of his). He shares a very large dinner with her before escorting her to his rooms for the night.  
 _His_  rooms.

 

Selene is no stranger to sex. She is very familiar with it in a theoretical, anecdotal, read-several-stories-about-it, sort of way.

She’s just never quite gotten around to the act herself before.

 

As she walks out of his (private) baths, one of his robes pulled tightly to her body, she feels like this is something she should probably  _tell_ him.

So she clears her throat and does just that.

 

He blinks.

“…not even with a spirit?”

“There was a desire spirit I almost tried with once,” she admits “But we were too similar, and then time passed and I just…never got around to it.”

“But you are very popular,” He blurts.

Selene raises an eyebrow at him. “What?”

“The…When I was looking for you. I was told you were a 'heart-throb’. I understand that to mean you are very popular in manners such as this, yes?”

“Oh. Oh! That’s-no. I’ve been courted a few times, and there have been a few dates, but I’ve never done sexual activities with a partner before.”

“Oh,” Dirthamen notes, and she’s glad to see there’s no judgment or disappointment at her admission, that he seems to simply be filing away this new information like any other. “We do not have to have any tonight either, if you do not want to.”

“You’re not going to be upset?” she checks.

His eyebrows crease in concern as he places his mask down on a small table beside the bed. “I did not bring you here for sexual purposes. I only wished to dance, and to speak with you again. We have done both of those things, extensively. There is very little you could do to upset me, I think.”

“Good to know,” She grins, her grip on the robe relaxing slightly as she crawls into the bed beside him.

 

She falls asleep flat on her back, her sword within arms reach as it leans against the side of the headboard.

When she wakes, she is curled almost entirely around Lord Dirthamen. 

 

His back is pressed tightly to her chest, her legs tangled up with his and one arm laying over his hip, and the arm she can no longer feel because it somehow made its way beneath him is being tenderly held between his own hands.

It might be embarrassing, if it were not quite so  _comfortable._

Instead she nuzzles her head gently against the back of his neck, shifts to a more comfortable angle, and falls back asleep to the soft snores of Lord Dirthamen.

–

 

On the third day, he arranges a picnic in the garden for them. She is wearing an outfit he gifted her, made of silk and starlight and feathers, her armor safely stowed away in a new leather pack as well. Her legs are bared, and she thinks her Nanae might disapprove of the vulnerability, but it is  _very_  comfortable, and he has not shown himself to be untrustworthy.

“I had a very nice time with you,” She smiles as he finishes off a small sandwich. “Thank you for finding me.”

“You could stay, if you’d like,” He offers slowly. “I could send a messenger to your family, tell them your summons has been extended…”

 

Selene snorts at the mental image of some poor messenger having to tell her Nanae that their daughter is staying an unspecified amount of time  _longer_  in Dirthamens lands when they have likely already been fretting since they found her note. Probably they would return full of holes with much of their past dug up and an angry, buzzing Nanae in their full armor behind them demanding to see her and verify that she is still alive and unharmed.

“I do not think that would go over well,” She admits without further detail. 

 

Dirthamen does not push the matter, and she stretches and lays out in his lap instead. His fingers card carefully through the strands of her hair, and she lets her eyes close in contentment at the motion.

“I would still like to see you again,” Dirthamen muses.

“You could come visit me,” She offers.

“I cannot leave for long periods of time. In truth, I do not usually have as much free time as I have given you these last few days. I had to reschedule several tedious but necessary appointments.”

“Well, thank you for making the time for me anyways. It was very sweet.”

“I would do it again, if I could.”

“I don’t doubt that,” She grins.

 

Deceit arrives in the late afternoon to escort her back through the crossroads, to ensure she makes it back to Mana'dins lands safely.

Selene stands, slinging her pack over her shoulder and verifying her sword at her hip and turning around to see Dirthamen one last time. The look he is giving her makes her ache; like he is missing someone who hasn’t even left yet, and she will blame that, she thinks, on what she does next.

Her fingers slip beneath his mask and pull it away from his face, as she presses a kiss to the soft skin of his cheek. She watches in pride as the skin begins to flush and one of his hands darts up to touch the space.

“Come find me again sometime pretty boy,” She hums, carefully placing the mask back on and straightening. “I could always use a dance partner like you.”

 

He nods, his exposed throat bobbing as he swallows down his nerves. She strides off behind Deceit, a bit more sway in her hips than usual.

 

It was a  _very_  good trip.


	7. Moon Palace AU

Dirthamen does his best to honour his parents, on the anniversary of their deaths.

As time passes, he finds his recollections of them shifting. Fading. Especially in the Dreaming, perception often means more than fact, and the dead can become whispers. He knows that even his own memories are not perfect. His recollections of his father dim and dull, shaving themselves down to the impression of fire, and passion, and anger, and volume. A bonfire, burning out too quickly.

His mother, he thinks, he remembers better. Or perhaps just more kindly. Guiding words and fond eyes, and strong hands on his shoulders.  _We will lead. We will make things better for The People._

That had been her dream. Before the clans of the Devoted came together, and destroyed it. His parents had fallen trying to hold the fortress of Arlathan, which was now the Palace of the Moon. The seat of the Devoted, the united clans who seized the much-contested territory from his parents, and refashioned it as a tribute to their gods. Dirthamen’s brother had narrowly escaped capture.

Dirthamen himself had not been so lucky.

He is a bargaining chip, against his brother’s lingering armies. One which has never been cashed, not for all the centuries that he has been locked in the palace dungeons. Lord Elrogathe is not a merciful jailor. But sometimes the guards permit him things, out of pity. His access to the Dreaming is sparse, cut off by the warded cells, and there is precious little he can do from a lone room, with a single, false window.

Over the years, he has accumulated a few treasures. A sundial which shows him the time, even from within the confines of his cell; reflecting a shadow that never truly falls upon it. A few simplistic books, their pages worn and letters faded. One is written by his own hand; pieced together over the years, from stray scraps of parchment and rogue writing implements. Sometimes done even in his own blood.

What dreams he has, are of flying. Beating wings against stone walls. Ravens locked in tunnels. At least, that is the usual scenario. But on the anniversary of his parents’ deaths, he tends to dream in memories. Good memories, when he can. Seeing snow for the first time. Hearing his mother laugh. Soaring through the Dreaming, with his brother at his side.

There is a party that goes on, in the fortress up above. The Devoted all gather their clans together, and make tribute to their gods, and celebrate their victory over Dirthamen’s parents. It is a time of ceasefires and revelry. Or so he has heard - the guards have spoken of it. Often to lament that they must be absent from the festivities. But of course, he has never seen it himself. Not since his trial condemned him to imprisonment, until such a time as his execution seemed fitting.

He knows Falon’Din is out there, at least. Knows his brother’s death would strike him, and that even if it would not, the Devoted would have executed him otherwise.

In the thousand years since his capture, a few other souls have been placed into the warded cell across from his own. There are only two in this part of the palace; though Dirthamen is certain there are more dungeons elsewhere. Sometimes, when the guards are lenient, or distracted, he has spoken to the people placed in the cells across from his.

Most were slated for death. He does not imagine many met a different fate, when they were finally taken away again. None knew his brother, save by reputation.  _The brutal warlord of the west,_  some would say, in recognition. But most only had other news or stories to share, and some even seemed reluctant to speak of his brother’s exploits to him. Or to speak to him at all. Dirthamen had always been unsettling; centuries of imprisonment had not done much to improve his countenance.

Still, he is excited when a new prisoner is brought in.

Not that he wishes this fate on anyone else. But it is a change of pace; it is new, and under the circumstances, he finds himself craving such rare opportunities for interaction.

This time is particularly strange, though.

The woman brought in has her hands bound. But she is dressed finely, in golds and blacks, with an ornate mask over part of her face. The guards do not remove it. They barely seem to touch her, in fact, and appear to be disquieted as they see her into her cell. The woman steps in freely, head held high.

“We shall come for you in the morning,” the warden tells her, with none of his usual sneering or spitting or striking. No violence, nor scorn. He takes the shackles from the woman’s wrists with care, and  _bows_  on his way back out, before the locks are seals and the wards flare to life.

The woman winces, then. Unaccustomed to the unpleasant vibrations that Dirthamen has endured for so long, he no longer recollects what it was like  _not_  to feel them.

The warden stops on his way out, to glare into Dirthamen’s cell.

“Stay back there,” he commands. “Keep your filth far from the lady, or there will be consequences.”

Dirthamen has met ‘consequences’ before. Sometimes as randomly as the warden’s own ill mood. He would not care to court them again, not even for the change of pace they might provide. And so he only nods, and despite his burning curiosity, he stays back. But the openings to the cells are transparent, so as to provide no safe place to hide. He can keep to the shadowed quarter; but he cannot help looking at the new prisoner.

She is very… striking. It has been a long time since he has seen someone dressed so finely. And her mask makes him think of his own, long since broken. Dashed pieces on the prison floor, gone with everything else he owned before.

He wonders why she has been allowed to keep such things.

For her own part, the stranger looks towards the darkness of his cell, and seems disquieted.

But she remains silent. After a few minutes, she slips into what seems to be a meditative state. Or an attempt at one. And then she gets up, and paces. Rolling her shoulders and tipping her head back, and stretching out her hands. She scratches at her skin. Dirthamen remembers the sense of itching. It is the wards. Sometimes he still feels it, when their field is strengthened at the end of each year.

It is the anniversary of his parents’ death. Dimly, he can hear a  _thud, thud, thud_ sound from above. Some magical engine churning, he suspects. Providing energy for the celebrations.

It is the deep hours of the night, long after the thudding has stopped, before the woman tries to speak to him.

“You are the warlord’s brother,” she says.

Dirthamen wonders if he should answer. It is probably unwise. Better to simply remain, to let himself  _want_  to answer, and live with that, than to endure  _consequences._  If he was a spirit, he thinks, he could manage such a thing. But he has not been a spirit for a long time, and his flesh yearns and hungers for things that he does not always understand. An immediacy of contact, of sensations, that sometimes makes his cell the most unbearable thing in all the world.

He is starving, even though he is fed.

“My brother is Falon’Din,” he says.

The woman frowns, just a little.

“That is a blasphemous name,” she informs him, though she seems somewhat dispassionate on the subject. “Those who shepherd the dead must respect death. Your brother is not a priest, let alone a god; but I have met him on the battlefield. He is conceited enough to take such liberties.”

Dirthamen shifts, his heart soaring at the mention.

“You have seen him?” he asks.

“…Yes,” the woman confirms, warily. “I tried to kill him. But he successfully retreated instead.”

Dirthamen closes his eyes, and lets out a long breath. His brother is still fighting. Of course he is; he is still striving. That is part of his very nature.

“What did he look like?” he wonders.

The woman glances at him. Just outside, the guards seem to be distracted by one of their fellows bringing them a few cups of wine from the celebration.

“Do you not know? If he is your brother?” she asks.

Dirthamen’s outline ripples, a little. A wing folding down from the shadows; a few stray eyes blinking through his tentacles.

“It has been more than a thousand years,” he says. “Appearances can change in an instant. My memories are worn, like old paint. I think… he had fair hair? It was not like mine, I know, but I cannot recollect what mine was like.”

The woman’s mouth softens, slightly. She is still very expressive, he thinks, despite the mask. He does not quite recollect what each expression  _means,_  but he knows it is not anger.

“You have been here  _that_  long?” she asks him. “That is longer than I have been alive for.”

Dirthamen shrugs. The floor blinks back at him, before the wards chase his shadow back up his legs, with stinging reproach. Sometimes when he becomes over-excited he spills out of himself too much. The cell does not like that.

“It is longer than many people have been alive for by now, I suppose,” he says.

Silence falls. Distantly, the sounds of the guards laughing carries through the doorway.

“…He was fair-haired,” the woman offers, quietly, after a few minutes. “Tall. Muscled. Wielding a sword with a blood red blade, and wearing a necklace made of skulls.”

Dirthamen closes his eyes, and attempts to picture it.

“People skulls?” he wonders.

“There were smaller than that. Though I suppose he could have shrunken some,” the woman allows. “I did not pay much attention. I was busy trying to light him on fire.”

He nods, and accepts the pragmatism of that. His brother is formidable in most fights. That, he recollects clearly. For several long moments, more silence falls between them, as Dirthamen endeavours to recollect Falon’Din’s face. To imagine him on the battlefield where he met this stranger, who fought him, and tried to kill him, and yet somehow ended up in the Moon Palace’s prison cells.

It is after the next guard change, when Dirthamen looks up, and sees the woman still awake. And staring at his tentacles, where they twist across the floor.

He pulls them back, somewhat. Unaccountably self-conscious.

“You are unusual, for one of Elrogathe’s prisoners,” he notes.

She smiles, ruefully.

“I have been one of Elrogathe’s prisoners for my entire life,” she tells him.

Dirthamen blinks.

“Even when you were on battlefields, fighting my brother?” he wonders.

She nods, slowly. Tilting her head back against the wall behind her.

“Even then,” she tells him. “Always. In the morning, they are going to come and let me out of my cell. Lesson learned. If I am lucky, Elrogathe will not speak to me for several months, and I will at least be able to return to my studies.”

Strange.

“What do you study?” Dirthamen wonders, tilting his head to one side. It is a little easier, when he looks at her, to remember what he is  _supposed_  to look like. Vaguely elf-shaped, at least. His eyes diminish down to four, and his wings stop pressing against the roof of his cell.

The woman stares at him for a moment, before clearing her throat.

“Whatever I can,” she tells him. “Though I am partial to experimental magic and mathematics… how are you doing that?”

“Doing what?” Dirthamen wonders.

“Changing shape,” she replies. “The cells are warded against magic.”

“I have been here for a long time,” he reminds her. “But I was only here for a few years before I forgot what shape I was supposed to be. Sometimes I remember. Usually, I do not. The warden dislikes it, but he has accepted that it is involuntary.”

There were consequences.

But Dirthamen’s confusion only worsened, in the wake of them. His solidity deteriorated, rather than improving.

“It still should not work,” she muses. “How do you-”

The rest of her question is lost as the door opens, then, and one of the guards strides in.

“The warden warned you,” they say, and Dirthamen knows that it is true. He shrinks back, but it does him no good - it never does - as the runes on the cell door are activated, and a painful light begins to slowly scrape through him. Magic muffling the unpleasantness of his cries, as his ‘excess’ being is compressed, and the pain lances through him, shrinking him down and battering him flat against the floor of the cell. Every wall burns. Every inch of the room is too bright, and the vibration of it screams inside of his skull, offering him no retreat or reprieve.

When it is done, he is a puddle of disjointed limbs and pieces on the floor. Exhausted, but pathetically grateful to have the dark returned to him.

The woman is speaking in sharp tones to the guard. Dirthamen wants to warn her not to, but in keeping with the strangeness of the encounter, it seems unnecessary; the consequences do not come, for her. Instead the guard leaves, and Dirthamen retreats back to his corner, to nurse his newfound information on Falon’Din and try to put his pieces back together.

Only a few hours pass, before the warden comes, and the new prisoner is gone.

Dirthamen finds himself hoping she was not executed. He does not typically permit himself such hopes. But given the strangeness of the case, he thinks, this time, there might be a chance.

He wonders if it is unfitting of his parents’ memory, though, to hope for the well-being of someone who once faced his brother on the battlefield.

“I am sorry,” he tells them. “I did not mean it badly.”

His memories whisper back, behind the humming in his cell.


	8. Moon Palace AU (part two)

The dawn comes, as Selene is released from the depths of their dungeon.

One of her fathers advisers ask her if she has learned her lesson after spending a night in the stifling darkness of the cage.

Selene  _has_  learned a lesson, she thinks. Though, likely not the one they wanted her to.

 

After a silent morning meal with her parents and bondmate, Selene heads out for her daily training. First physical with some of the soldiers, followed by magical and emotional with the scribes. Nothing particularly interesting or unusual strikes her, a mundane schedule by all accounts. But her mind wanders.

A prisoner they have housed longer than she has been alive.

A prisoner who could change his shape without meaning to, in a cell that should not permit such things.

She  _knows_  those wards.

If he can exploit them, it could mean trouble for all of her people.

Although…he did not seem to mean anything menacing with his shape, unusual as it appeared. And if he is unconsciously weakening the wards, that is even  _more_  troubling.

 

She mentions it to her mother, at their afternoon meeting.

“I’m sure it was just a trick, da'len,” Dhaveira assures her. “This is why I told your father sending you to that cage was a poor choice for punishment. He is known for his lies and his secrets, do not succumb to them.”

“He did not seem malicious-”

“ _Selene._ ” Dhaveira asserts. “I know you are young, and do not remember the uprising. But he has slaughtered thousands of our people. His family is made of monsters, who sacrificed elves and spirits alike for nothing more than their own power, and lies. They tried to force out our gods and replace them with their pale imitations. His own brother is still rampaging through the west and leaving rivers of our peoples blood in his wake. Make no mistake; if given the chance, that prisoner would be fighting right alongside his brother, and would slay you as soon as you came near enough.” She reaches out, long dark fingers gently cupping Selenes face in her hands before whispering “Do not mistake his patience for kindness. I could not bear the loss.”

 

Selene lets out a heavy breath, and replies with simply “Yes, mother.”

 

It does not stop her wondering, though.

 

The meeting shifts to concerns of food distribution, and a need for cross training in certain fields, and increasing benefits of teaching these methods as incentives to further the peoples knowledge. Selene wonders how many of these decisions will be turned away by her father when they are shown to him, as unnecessary, or wasteful.

Dhaveira will push many of them through, anyways.

 

And the end of the meeting comes the same way it has for the last decade.

 

“When will you and Haleir be having children?” Her mother asks in a tone that has become both familiar and unwelcome.

“When he is able to get it up without sticking it in the nearest member of the dance troupe, I imagine.” Selene quips back.

Dhaveira lets out a heavy sigh, as expected. “There is no need for crassness. Perhaps if you worked harder to please him  _yourself_ -”

Selene levels a stare at her mother. “I have other things to do than worry about his sexual preferences. If he wants to sleep his way through the entertainers, let him. None of them seem to mind.”

“If this is about when you first spent the night together again-”

“I know, I know. You are tired of hearing of it. And I am tired of the possibility of bearing children for a man I despise. So, it appears we are at an impasse.”

“At this rate, you will never be permitted to remove that mask.” Dhaveira mutters.

Selene shrugs. “I’ve grown to quite like it anyways.”

With a noise of frustration, Dhaveira gathers her notes, handing small stacks of scrolls to her advisers, and leaves the expansive chamber.

 

Once she has made her exit, Selene scratches at the skin just under the edge of her mask.

Not a metaphor for the people as they claimed, then. But the confirmation of it as a punishment is reassuring to her own theories, at least.

–

 

She manages to get through a full week of her responsibilities and research before the itch in the back of her head takes over.

 

_How_  did he manage to shape-shift in that cell?

 

Her fingers drum against the hard wood of the library table as she contemplates her options. She could recreate a cell, duplicate the wards, and run an extensive series of measured tests against a control. She could look into who crafted the original wards; perhaps they were unconcerned with shape shifting as a whole, and oversold their abilities.  
She supposes, in the end, that the simplest way to find out would be to just  _ask_  the prisoner how he is doing it.

But perhaps that was his plan all along? Something intriguing to pull her back down and eventually lead to his…what? Release? She wouldn’t, couldn’t without authorization. A trap then, maybe. Something to do with his brother…?

No matter how many times to looks over the situation though, she can’t seem to decipher what it is he may be trying to do. After ending up in too many circular thoughts, Selene finally settles on going, and dealing with potential consequences later.

 

It is a long walk down to his cage. Past level after level of dungeons, each more isolated than the last. Most are empty, or only temporarily filled. But at the bottom of the spiral staircase, are the final two cages.

Only one is filled, with wings and feathers and black shadows seeping into corners.

She thinks for a moment, he may be sleeping. But as she steps further down, and dismisses the guards for an extended lunch break, his eyes seem to pop open. First one, then two, and then more and more until she is unsure which would be polite to look back into.

She drags the wardens chair over, still several feet from the cage itself, and crosses one leg over the other.

And waits.

 

Slowly, he inches towards her. Not quite pressed against the edge of the cage, but close enough that she can see him shifting beneath the few shreds of the prisoners cloak that are still intact.

She watches, curious, as his wings shrink. Feathers fall to the floor, twelve eyes become four, and a few of the tentacles seem to solidify into more elven limbs. Whether arms, or legs, she’s still not quite sure. But the longer she watches him, the less monstrous he seems to appear.

 

“How do you do that?” She finally asks.

His head tilts, a neck still far too long for most creatures. “I do not mean to. My form shifts on its own. I do not have so much control over it as I once did.”

He blinks, though not all at once.

“You have asked me that already.”

 

Selene nods. “I did. But neither answer makes sense to me. The wards in that cell should revert you into your most basic form,” she frowns, as realization begins to dawn on her, just a bit. “Unless, perhaps, you do not have one.”

“That seems likely.” The prisoner agrees.

 

Selene sighs, disappointed at the simplicity of the answer now that she seems to have found it.

He shifts further though, forming a hand with too many thumbs and moving into what she assumes is a standing position.

 

“I did not expect you to come back.” He says.

“I was curious,” Selene admits. “I don’t understand you.”

“Do you understand most people?”

“To a degree.”

“You must be very clever then. People have often eluded my own understanding.”

 

Selene frowns slightly. “Do not needlessly flatter me.”

 

Her disapproval causes him to stumble for a moment, and she notes how genuine confusion carefully envelops him.“My apologies. I meant no offense.”

 

She leans back further in the chair, rubbing carefully at the space above the mask.

“No, I suppose you didn’t. And that only leads to further questions for me.”

“…Am I permitted to ask questions of you as well?”

 

Selene pauses, and straightens in her chair. That could be very dangerous territory, she knows.

Still.

Curiosity abounds.

 

“You may, but I make no promise of answers.” she says.

 

“Why do you wear the mask?”

“For reasons that are not entirely my own.” She admits. “Are you close with your brother?”

“I was, once.” he pauses then, considering his next question. “You said you were a prisoner of Elrogathes, yet you roam free and the guards exit with your approval.”

 

“That is not a question.” Selene points out.

“Then what sort of a prisoner are you?”

“A prisoner of blood.”

“What was your crime?”

“Ah ah, that’s two,” Selene smiles. “It’s not your turn.”

 

He gives a soft noise in affirmation, and shifts further within his cage. The door swings open while she is considering which inquiry to pose next, and the warden steps in.

 

“My lady,” he says with a bow to her and a scowl to the prisoner. “Your husband requests your presence.”

  
Behind the mask, Selene rolls her eyes, not bothering to hide the distaste rolling off of her. He  _would_  manage to interrupt one of the most interesting things to occur to her in years.

“Tell him I will be up shortly.” She replies, without moving from her chair.

 

The warden seems caught then, between conflicting orders she supposes, and she lets out a sigh.

 

“Do not harm this prisoner,” she instructs, recalling the last time she saw the two of them together. “I will be back to speak with him when I am able, and I will be  _exceedingly_  cross if he is unable to hold a conversation. Do you understand?”

 

Once the warden acknowledges her orders, no matter how reluctant he may seem to them, she stands, straightening out her outfit.

 

“I will see you another time,” she nods to the prisoner, before ascending the stairs to deal with her husband. Likely he has burned through most of his share of credits on keeping himself ‘entertained’, and will be requesting more again.

She knows it is still better than the alternative.


	9. Ancient Wrist AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So once there was a tumblr post about having your soulmates name on one wrist, and your enemies name on the other, but there was no way to tell which was which. This is based on that idea.

Dhaveira weeps when she reads the names on her newborn daughters wrists.

_Dirthamen_ , on the left.

_Falon'din_ , on the right.

 

“She will be killed,” she whispers into her husbands shoulder.

Elrogathe stares down at his daughter, contemplating their options.

“No,” he decides.

 

Dhaveira’s voice cracks in a half-laugh half-sob “You sound so certain.”

“I am.”

She sniffs, and lifts her head to meet her husbands gaze. Nervous. Still, it’s strangely comforting to know he is as worried as she is.

“What will we do?”

“Lie,” he explains.

“Our Lady will see-”

“Then she will not meet our Lady” Elrogathe wavers. Dhaveira swallows as she rocks their daughter. Eyes barely opened, and no idea of the death sentence buried in her skin. A shudder rakes through Dhaveira as she tries to stop herself from sobbing anew.

 

“We will give her a false name,” Dhaveira whispers. “To ensure she is not hunted once she is grown.”

Elrogathe nods in agreement, a soothing hand drifting over his daughters forehead.

“What would you like her true name to be, Vhenan?” he murmurs.

“Selene,” Dhaveira answers. It had taken them nearly six years to successfully produce an offspring, and the moons had been so  _full_ and _bright_  on the night they realized their success. It was the first image to appear in her mind when she saw her daughter, hair as white as her own.

Elrogathe repeats the name, and decides on Sulvuna, for public use. Alive.

_‘She will not be, if her names are discovered_ ,’ Dhaveira thinks bitterly.

–

Selene knows why she is not allowed outside of her parents home, despite her four centuries of life. She knows it when she stares at her wrists, alone in the dark and hidden in her wards as she removes the enchanted bracelets her father commissioned for her, that turns her cursed names into generic, common ones in the light.

She knows it when she hides her numbers and theories and ideas in chests and under her mothers flowers in the garden. When she watches her father angrily burn them and hand her aloes and salves in their stead.

“Do not excel. Do not be noticed.” her parents instruct.

Selene knows why her hair is kept short, and dyed dark, and why her mother assists in shifting her features whenever she is forced to attend an event. Her face and body are rounded and dressed in clothes just acceptable enough to not offend, but never to stand out. More often than not, she waits out the duration of these 'parties’ near her mothers floral arrangements, which are usually found more interesting than she is.

 

Her father is angry today, though. Panicking, while her mother tries to calm him.

There is a celebration being held at the end of the month, they explain to Selene once things have settled. Their positive standing with the Lady means that she has asked their entire family unit to attend. Unfortunately, Lady Sylaise’s  _own_  family will be in attendance.

Selene knows she should not be excited about that. Her born enemy will be in attendance, someone she is likely to have to fight, or kill, or more likely be killed  _by._

But it also means that her soulmate will be in attendance.

 

She stares at her wrists for several hours in the starlight, and dreams of fairy tales.

–

 

Her mother spends the bulk of the day manipulating Selene (“Sulvuna,”her mother reminds her)’s body into its usual, average shape. They re-dye her hair in the morning, a dark brown they trim until it hangs just barely past her ears. Her father is still nervous, and at one point suggests that they claim she is too ill to attend. Dhaviera points out that they used that excuse at the last celebration, because it took them outside of their ladies territories, and that it would be worse to draw attention to their daughters health.

 

Elrogathe scowls, and leaves the room.

Selene lets out a soft breath of relief.

 

“You will need to be careful,” Dhaveira sighs as she de-enchants the buttons on Selene’s dress so they do not purposely catch the light.

“Yes, Mamae,” Selene replies dutifully.

“Do not talk to anyone you do not know.”

“Yes, Mamae.”

“Do not talk at all, if you can help it,” Dhaveira mumbles.

“That is the same thing,” Selene says with an eye roll.

Dhaveira frowns. “You know people.”

Selene scoffs. “How would I know people? I am never allowed outside of the house on my own, not even out into the garden without a disguise. You and Papae never have guests-”

“We have guests!”

“The last time you had company I was permitted out of my room for, it was my Vallaslin ceremony two centuries ago!”

“And you met that lovely spirit!”

“Of  _Wanderlust_!”

 

Dhaveira looks ready to argue that a spirit designed around the desire to travel counts as a permanent friend, when Elrogathe re-enters the room.

Selene looks at the item in his hand and blanches.

“Papae,  _no.”_

“I would feel better if you wore it.”

“I am going to stick out more if you put that veil over my head,” Selene attempts, eyeing the lace-y object in her fathers hand.

“Veils and flower crowns are very in style right now. You will blend in suitably,” he disputes, draping it over her.

Dhaveira hums and tilts her head, returning with a few black hollyhock flowers from the back of the garden that she threads through the lacy pattern.

Her parents step back and nod in unison with an approving grunt.

“You’re ready.”

–

 

Selene hates the veil.

Really, truly, hates it. It obscures her vision, and makes it difficult to do simple tasks. Several times, she has to leave the main room to step outside and simply  _breathe_. Her father makes apologies to whomever is around. It’s their usual game.

_'Please pardon our daughter, she is slow to learn, but very dear to us, and strange people make her uncomfortable.’_

 

Selene grumbles as she fiddles with her bracelets, counting them to ensure they are all still on. One, two, three, four. One, two, three four.

She glances down at her wrists and fantasizes about throwing off her veil and her bracelets and her mothers glamours and striding back into the room in confidence. Of announcing herself to those whose names are embedded in her skin without fear, letting the white of her hair catch the light and standing at her full height and holding a  _real conversation and_ -

 

But she knows she never can. She saw the other person with Lord Falon'din. Dark skinned and fair haired, and decked out in golds and silks and held at the end of a leash.

That is likely the  _positive_  outcome to that scenario, she imagines.

 

But she saw Lord Dirthamen too, briefly. Just a glance. He wore a mask and a cloak, but he seemed almost as awkward as Selene herself felt. She fiddles with the veil, mapping the textures between her fingers. Perhaps she could strike up a conversation with him about his own preferences?

_'My Lord, which corners do you find to be the most optimal for avoiding people? The Eastern? Oh yes, that one’s lovely but the Northwestern one is less dusty, and the wind pattern in the room means those candles will flicker out the earliest for concealment.’_

She chuckles softly to herself and shakes her head. Glances back at her left wrist and bites her lip.

 

It would be a death sentence, she knows.

 

Is she even living now, though? Hiding in her parents home and avoiding any subjects she is even remotely skilled at. No friends, walled off dreams. No real prospects for the future.

Her parents would be killed though, for hiding it. For not immediately reporting their daughters names as 'high-risk’.

With a heavy sigh, Selene releases the veil from her grip, allowing it to fall naturally off of her forcefully rounded features.

 

When she turns, she nearly stumbles off of the balcony.

 

Lady Mythal is smiling at her. But it does not seem to reach her eyes.

 

Selene drops immediately into a bow, trying desperately to remember her manners. “M-My Lady! Your Grace! A thousand apologies, I did not mean to impede upon your privacy. Please, permit me to take my leave,” she stammers, never looking back up from where her eyes are boring a hole into the ground.

 

“You have given me no offense, child,” Mythal soothes. “Please, rise.”

Selene swallows and awkwardly returns to her half-hunched position. “Thank you, My Lady. You are very kind.”

“I do not recall seeing you at these events before,” Mythal begins. Her voice drops slightly as she continues “Although with all of the concealment on your person, perhaps I simply do not recognize you. Tell me, why  _do_  you wear so many disguises?”

 

Selene is fairly certain her heart is about to jump out of her chest in panic as her tongue turns to lead. “I…”she hesitates, taking a few breaths before she manages to continues “My natural appearance is not considered…suitable for events such as these, My Lady. I wear these concealment in hopes that I will not offend those in attendance. I did not mean it as a deception,” she evades.

 

Mythals eyes scan over her body, and Selene does her best to conceal her emotions. What she told her was not, _technically_ , a lie.

 

“What is your name, child?” Mythal finally asks.

“Sulvuna,” Selene replies.

“… _Truly_?”

Selene nods. “It is what my parents call me.”

Mythal hums.

“I see. Well, Sulvuna, thank you for indulging me. I hope you find the rest of the party more suitable for you.”

“Thank you, My Lady.” Selene says with a final, deep bow, before practically running back into the party.

 

She avoids the gaze of Falon'din easily for the remainder of the night; he seems occupied enough by his own companions. A few times, she feels what she believes to be Lord Dirthamen’s eyes upon her throughout the evening, but ensures she never returns his gaze.

 

Dhaveira and Elrogathe each breathe a sigh of relief upon returning home.

 

Selene hides in her room with the veil. She doesn’t take off the bracelets that night. Doesn’t even dare to dream.

Instead, she thinks of masks, and leashes, and wonders if The Nameless had the right idea.

* * *

Selene sees a bird, when she finally manages to fall asleep.

On an average day, she would simply ignore it. But this one is solid. She can make out the feathers on its back and the talons on its feet.

And it is staring at her rather more intently than any spirit with a passing interest should.

 

“We know you,” the raven finally speaks. It is low, and quiet, and she knows its nature as soon as she hears it.

 

Selene runs from Fear.

 

She bounds through the dreaming, which is perhaps not her brightest moment. But she can’t seem to force herself awake no matter how she tries. Other spirits glance at her as she sprints past them, through illusions of puddles and trees. The forest becomes too dense around her, overgrowth blooming around her as her follower catches up.

She panics.

She climbs the closest tree as high as she is able, presses herself to the trunk, and tries to summon every illusionary spell she can remember, while staying very, very still.

 

Several moments seem to pass. The sounds around her come back to life. The usual low hums and thrums of passing spirits and energies moving through the dreaming. She lets out the breath she had been holding, thinking the threat has passed.

The raven lands on the branch before her, and tilts its head.

“You hid from a bird, in a tree. You do realize the error, yes?”

 

Selene doesn’t respond. She bites on her bottom lip until it should be bleeding, hoping the pain will force her awake.

It doesn’t work.

 

The spirit continues to stare at her, until another raven joins it.

“You are frightening her,” the new spirit observes.

 

Selene holds back a snort; as if it could be expected to do anything  _else._

 

Fear waddles closer to her on the branch, and Selene pushes back against the trunk of the tree. She debates the merits of attempting to dispel the tree, but seeing as she is the only creature not capable of flying to safety, there seems little that it would accomplish.

 

“We know you,” Fear repeats.

 

Selene shakes her head in denial, as the other spirit narrows its eyes.

“You were at Sylaise’s party,” they note. “But you were hidden from us.”

 

Selene realizes then who the other spirit must be, and swallows. She idly wonders what the punishment would be for lighting Lord Dirthamens spirit companions on fire so that she could attempt to run again.

  
“It would not be a pleasant outcome, I assure you,” Fear advises. She’s fairly certain he is underselling it, though.

 

“We are not here to harm you. Only to assess.”

“Forgive me, if I do not trust the words of  _Deceit_  so implicitly.”

 

“That is probably wise,” Fear nods “However, we are here strictly to observe and assess. We do not, currently, mean you any harm.”

 

She hesitates, still skeptical, but nods and relaxes a bit against the tree. “How did you find me?”

 

“Carefully,” Deceit answers. “Almost as carefully as you have hidden, it seems. You are Selene, we assume?”

 

Selene nods. At the very least, if they attempt to find someone with her name when they return to the waking, that particular trail will not lead to her. All of her paperwork is under her false name.

 

“You have been using very old magics, to hide from our scrys. It would be impressive, if it were not so suspicious a thing. We had wondered if you perhaps resided outside of the territories.”

 

“I do.”

 

“That is a lie,” Deceit states “You were present at Lady Sylaise’s party. You likely reside in her territories, then. She had the largest envoy of followers, and your hesitance towards us indicates you are likely not used to interacting directly with those higher up. So, high enough class to merit an invitation, but not so high that we would have come across you before.”

 

Selene stays silent, bundling her emotions as tightly to herself as she can manage.

 

“Will you cooperate? This will go much more smoothly if you do,” Fear advises.

 

Selene remains silent.

 

Deceit lets out a sigh, and before Selene is able to react, they suddenly shift into the form of a winged elf, pinning her wrists above her head. She fights, and throws her magic at them; it doesn’t matter now, if they see her wrists she will be killed regardless. She gets lucky, a stray flame licking at the edge of their wing and catching. It serves as enough of a distraction that she is able to kick them off of her and leap from the tree. Her ankle throbs at the impact of hitting the ground, and she tries to run to the best of her abilities. She finds herself cut off by another pair of jet black wings as she serpentine’s through the forest, falling backwards. She thinks she hears someone call out for her, before her head impacts the roots growing out of the fade and-

She shoots up in her bed in a cold sweat, disoriented from the sudden perspective shift, and breathes a sigh of relief.

She is back in her room. Safe.

 

She turns her head, intending to alert her parents of her activities in the dreaming, but as she moves to stand a pair of arms wrap too tightly around her waist, and everything goes black before she can scream.

* * *

The first thing Selene notices when she regains consciousness, is how much  _lighter_  she feels. No pressing weights on her chest or her arms. No permanent sense of having her bones shifted someplace they shouldn’t be. No enchantments or glamours pressing against her.

The second, is that the room she is in is very, very dark. The stone walls are a deep gray, with long black curtains and deep purple accents. The bed beneath her has black, high quality sheets over top of a very plush mattress, and the opposite wall has a single tall, elegant mirror standing in front of it.

The only reason the mirror stands out to her, though, is the flash of white in stark contrast to the rest of the room.

It takes her a few moments to register that the white she’s looking at is a part of her reflection.

Her hair is its natural color.

 

The pit of her stomach feels like it drops out of her. She hears her parents advice ringing in her ears. Warnings that the brothers have a  _type,_ that she is unfortunate enough to  _match_  that type, that she has to hide her hair color to avoid their eye.

For a split second, she regrets that she never simply shaved her head. But she shakes off the thought and tries to focus on her situation now, rather than things she could have done in the past that may or may not have helped her to avoid her current predicament.

 

She takes a deep breath, and moves to count her bracelets-and promptly realizes she doesn’t have them anymore.

She’s still wearing her night shift, at least. And just her night shift.

Ok, well. She makes a mental note to always sleep fully dressed, moving forward.

 

She tries to stand from the bed and immediately yanks her legs back up under her at the sudden sensation of the cold, bare floor against her feet. Despite the sterile white with gold and green accents of her families home, her own room had always had a thick layer of rugs covering the floor.

Covering the runes underneath that were supposed to keep her hidden.

 

Well. Four hundred years was a pretty good run, she supposes.

 

The door to the room (cell?) that she is in opens, and a familiar spirit wings into the room, perching briefly atop the mirror.

Fear looks her up and down, before nodding approvingly.

“Come with me,” they instruct.

Selene swallows, but does as she’s told.

 

She’s expecting a punishment. Flogging, whipping, torture. Perhaps they will set her on fire for the sake of poetic justice, since she attempted to light them first?

Or maybe she will get lucky, and they will just kill her quickly to be done with it.

 

But Fear leads her to what she assumes must be the throne room. Based on the giant, darkened throne sitting in the center of it. And sitting inside that, is what appears to be an elf. A simple elf, wearing a dark cloak and a mask.

Selene stares pointedly at the ground as she approaches, a few steps behind Fear.

 

“So, you are Selene,” Lord Dirthamen states.

She gulps, and keeps her stare leveled at the stones beneath her feet. Her fingers twitch, looking to fidget with bracelets she no longer has.

His fingers taps against the arm rests of his throne, the sound echoing throughout the spacious, empty chamber.

“Will you not speak?” He asks. Selene thinks she hears a touch of worry in his voice, but she dares not look up to see if it is in his aura.

 

“I…” she begins, eyes still focused on the ground. She finds her mouth and throat dry, and quickly licks her lips before attempting to speak again. “I am Selene, my Lord,” she admits.

 

He nods approvingly. “Good. That is…” he clears his throat awkwardly “Good. Do you have any questions for me, Selene?”

 

Selene blinks, trying to sort through the hundreds of questions in her mind and find one that won’t offend him, or give away too much of herself.

“What happened to my bracelets?” she settles on.

“Deceit is wearing them, while they temporarily take your place.”

 

Her head shoots up at that, eyes widening “What?”

 

“It seemed likely your family would panic if they discovered you were missing. Deceit will take your place until I have finished negotiations with my sister to have you transferred into my jurisdiction.”

  
Selene swallows, again.

“Are my parents going to be punished?”

“Yes,” Dirthamen admits. “It was unwise to hide you for so long.”

 

“Please,” she stammers, taking a step forward “Please, they were just trying to do what they thought was best. They meant no insult towards you or your family, I swear it. Please. Please, leave them be.”

“That is not how the law operates.”

“Then change it! Make an exception!” Selene insists “Anyone can judge based on a solid line between black and white. If you can not be the one to see when the letter of the law is not appropriate, then what is the point of you?”

 

Dirthamens fingers tap against his chair again, and Fears wings flutter loudly at their side. Selene worries that she has overstepped. She has, of course. But she is going to die, by his hands or his brothers. That is a truth she has known for four hundred years. The best she can do now, is try to save who she still can.

 

“What would you offer in exchange?” he asks.

 

Selene pauses, at that.   
What  _could_  she offer?

She has never been allowed to explore her talents, and her healing abilities are mediocre at best, compared to the masters he surely has already.

“What would you want?”

 

He is quiet for a few moments more, before leaning forward just slightly in his throne.

“You will remain here, of your own free will. You will not attempt to run, or escape,” through the holes of his mask, Selene thinks she sees his eyes scan over her shortened hair, and feels a shiver run down her spine. “And you will not attempt to hide your true form from me again.”

 

Selene snorts, recalling the image of the golden elf on his brothers chain “Does it really count as ‘free will’ if I am doing it in exchange for my families safety?”

“I suppose that depends on your own intent, should you enter into this agreement.”

 

That is…probably a fair point, she thinks. Her parents have already given up so much for her; time away from their work, credits redeemed for enchanted items, hopes of having a child they could be proud of. So much effort spent to keep her hidden, and she has managed to ruin all of their work in a single night. It would be selfish, she thinks, not to accept.

But she is not entirely sure what  _he_  is hoping to gain from this agreement.

Unless…

 

“May I still ask you questions?”

“You may.”

“Why would you not kill me? Surely you have your brothers name as well. That must make me a danger to you.”

 

Lord Dirthamen shifts in his seat, and Selene realizes, abruptly, what his reluctance to punish her, the exceptions he is willing to provide, his desire to keep her near, must mean.

 

“You think _I_ am your soulmate,” she whispers incredulously.

 

Of course she had mulled over the thought herself. Of some fairy tale romance, being whisked away from her captivity to live happily ever after in bliss somewhere with someone who would love her unconditionally.

But she had never  _genuinely_  thought that she would have someone like that.

 

“I am simply entertaining the notion that you could be,” he evades.

 

Right.

Well.

This could be…a lot worse, she supposes.

 

“What will I be expected to do? If I remain.”

“We will find an appropriate position for you.”

“Will I have a say in what I get to do?” Selene checks, not particularly interested in trading one cage for another with the same restrictions.

“Within reason, yes.” Dirthamen allows.

 

Selene swallows, and squares her shoulders.

“Then…I will stay. Here, in your territories. But my family will not be punished,” She agrees.

 

Dirthamen nods, and appears before her suddenly, right arm outstretched. Selene pauses for only a moment, taking the offered hand in her left one. She feels a pulsing energy shoot through her when she does. Flashes of the dreaming, of eyes that are not her own, of flight and the sensation of being torn apart and rebuilt. She gasps, and stumbles forward slightly. Dirthamen manages to barely catch her, caught within his own overwhelmed sensations. She hears Fear let out a hiss above them before flying off, and when she glances up, she makes contact with the bright blue eyes staring back at her in shock.

 

They stand in silence for a few moments, before Dirthamen breaks it, his arms still around her.

“Is that normal?”

 

Selene wishes she had an answer for him.


	10. Bodyswap AU

By all means, it is supposed to be a very standard sort of test for the latest labyrinth. Just a walk through, Selene ensuring everything is set up to Dirthamen’s requests, all the traps and spells and creatures where they should be, that there is no danger or escape where there should not be. But of course, tensions have been high lately. Rumors of rebellions and renegades and sabotage.

She probably should have been more careful, all things considered.

Still.

It is not as though she thought a dart would do this much damage.

 

But it does, as the potion spreads through her veins and her vision goes blurry and she feels herself separating somehow. One moment she is staring at the stones pathway as her face rushes towards it and her legs give out-

And the next, she is seated at a grand table, with four Evanuris chattering around her.

 

It takes her a moment to even realize who they are. She can barely see, eye holes just barely opened through the mask, energies and mana swirling through the room. Showing aberrations, scars, deformations of all kinds.

They barely even look like elves.

 

But it does not take long for her anxiety to kick in, once she can see through it.

All at once, her perspective shifts, neck elongating several inches, toes curling into talons at her feet and feathers fluttering behind her and wrapping around herself in a protective manner while she tries to calm herself, and tries desperately not to draw attention to her current predicament.

 

Mythal turns to her first.

“My son, are you well?”

 

Selene is not sure why she is looking at her, at first, until it clicks.

Oh.

_Oh._

Oh no.

Oh no no no no no no no.

 

Mentally, she strains, trying to reach for Fear or Deceit. But she finds nothing. Only her own mind. Too much to hope she could have a bit of help here, she supposes.

 

“He’s probably just tired, Mother,” Sylaise sighs. Selene tries to reign his body in, tries to fight her flight instinct at being so close to the woman that had nearly sent her to the sacrificial chopping block before she managed to catch Dirthamen’s eye.

 

Luckily for Selene, Sylaise’s comments combined with her continued silence (And she supposes just staying silent is her best shot at not being caught at ending up someplace she  _absolutely should not be_ , hearing topics discussed she _absolutely should not know about_ ) are enough to satisfy Mythal’s temporary concerns.

 

As Elgar'nan rages on about his peacekeepers being under valued in Andruils land, Selene wonders on what could be happening with Dirthamen.

–

 

Dirthamen does not remember falling asleep during the meeting with his family.

He does not recall taking himself back to his own territories, nor to the infirmary.

But he does recall his thoughts drifting off to topics that he supposes could be linked to healthcare, so he does not worry overmuch.

The healers seem to think he is fine to go off on his way now, whatever has happened.

He thanks them, before taking his leave.

 

He feels rather comfortable today. Perhaps the nap he must have taken was more restful than he had given it credit for. He barely has to exert any of his mental capacities towards his form, and his eyesight is very clear.

 

_Have you seen yourself?_  Deceit whispers, on a rush through the fade in an effort to get back to the room Dirthamen must have left.

 

_No._

 

_Find a reflective surface._

 

Deceit and Fear both seem strangely riled, given Dirthamen’s own sense of ease, as he makes his way towards one of the fountains.

 

He sees Selene, first.

Turning to greet her, however, he finds himself alone.

Strange.

When he turns again, he sees only Selene in the fountain.

Raising his hand for a customary wave, and noticing her synchronized movements with his, it clicks.

Oh.

He is in the wrong body.

  
A chill shoots down his spine as he contemplates the potential consequences of what this could mean for Selenes own current whereabouts.

 

_You seem to have swapped._  Deceit informs him, showing Dirthamen that he has successfully landed on his-but-not-his shoulder within the meeting room.

 

_Do not let them know._  He orders Deceit. He has not kept her safe, kept her hidden, kept her out of their eye for so long only for them to discover her now, like this.

Like this…

They would have her killed.

 

_Find who caused this_ , He demands of Fear.

 

The labyrinth will be put to use sooner than he had planned.

–

 

Selene has to resist letting out an audible breath of relief when Deceit lands on her shoulder.

He can handle this. If they have questions.

Questions she definitely can’t answer.

Well…except for a few of them that she’s not  _supposed_ to be able to answer.

But pillow talk can’t really be held against people for treason, right?

….no, it almost definitely can be, she’s pretty sure.

 

But she stays silent the rest of the meeting, focusing on not panicking at the terrifying things revealed by Dirthamen’s mask, and on keeping her shape as solid as she can manage, and on not giving off a huge blinking aura sign that says ‘I SHOULD NOT BE HERE’ spelled out in anxiety and fear.

Deceit helps a lot with that last bit, by cloaking their aura over hers.

 

Still.

She can not escape that room fast enough, when the meeting is finally called to a close.

 

“You need to get back,” Deceit whispers to her as they journey back to Dirthamen’s temple in Arlathan.

  
“Great, let’s go,” Selene says, steering sharply to the right and towards the Eluvians.

 

“You can not go alone,” they hiss. “People will notice. I will retrieve the contingent, and claim we are not feeling well and must leave early.”

 

“Ok, and I will…?”

 

“You will have to come as well,” they sigh. Deceit frowns, as best they can with a beak, as their eyes narrow at the bottom of her cloak “And try not to lose control of his form. You have a tentacle showing.”

 

Selene swallows, and focuses on keeping her legs and feet the way she remembers they are supposed to be.

Only for her to grow several extra fingers and eyes.

This…this could be better.

* * *

 

The journey back to Dirthamens holdings in Arlathan is strenuous.  Each step feels like she’s trudging through water against the tide, ready for her feet (or whatever semblance of a foot she may currently be sporting) to give way beneath her.

She ready to collapse by the time they make it through the gates. Keeping the form is much more of a mental and magical strain than she is used to dealing with, and still she is only barely managing to keep it all together.

She and Deceit vanish behind the heavy drapery of Dirthamens private chamber together for a moment of privacy.

Selene melts into the couch cushions.

Literally.

 

Deceit quickly shifts into Dirthamens usual form, and begins quietly hissing at Selene.

“How did this happen?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Selene sighs, two puddles crashing like waves up and then down in a semblance of a shrug. “I was working in the labyrinth, and then I felt a sting in the back of my neck, and then I was in that meeting.” She frowns as she recalls the events of the meeting. “Are they always that rude to him?”

 

“It is usually worse,” Deceit admits “But Mythal at least seemed to recognize something was not quite right and kept Elgar'nan more placated than she would normally bother to.”

 

“I suppose that’s…good, then? For now. Perhaps he’ll get a break.”

 

“He will not. It is more likely she will be keeping a closer eye on things, and look for an opening to seize more power from him. You will have to be more cautious.”

 

Selenes frown deepens “I don’t like the sound of that. I was hoping for more ‘don’t worry Selene, we’ll get this all sorted out and get things back to normal’ and less ‘You’ve made everything exponentially worse and there’s no real plan on how to move forward so just be careful and try not to get any of us killed’.”

 

“I’ve always appreciated your ability to read between the lines,” Deceit jokes with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

 

A piece of her form curls up from the ground and tugs teasingly on the bottom of his robe in response.

 

“The good news is, we have experience in Dirthamen not always being Dirthamen,” Deceit placates “The bad news is, that means you will need to be me while I am being him.”

 

“I don’t think I can manage Sairal,” Selene admits while trying to pull herself back into a vaguely elven form rather than a series of thick puddles  “I can barely manage to keep this together at all.”

 

“Another, simpler form might be more suitable then. Have you tried a raven?”

 

Selene rolls her shoulders as best she can, head practically falling over from the elongated neck when she moves to crack it. Quickly, she straightens, and lets out a breath.

Ok.

A raven.  
She can do a raven. She’s managed the white raven before, in her own body.

Same deal here.

Probably.

 

Let’s see…Wings, of course. And all black, for Dirthamen, a bit larger than normal. Sleek, for Deceit, with the elongated talons…

 

She feels her body shifting, hears the bones snapping and stretching and feels wings pulling from her shoulder blades. One, two…three…four…five…and finally  _six._

Six isn’t right, she’s fairly certain. Most birds do not have six wings.

Eyes peel open to check, and it is disorienting at first. Too many perspectives, too many clashing peripherals while her mind struggles to adjust to the six eyes rolling in her newly stretched skull.

 

Deceit is so  _tiny,_  now.

Are ravens this big, she wonders? She’s pretty sure they’re not supposed to be.

 

“That is definitely  _not_  a raven,” Deceit informs her, panic beginning to subtly roll off of him. “The fact that you got to  _ **Dragon**_  before a raven is a very interesting piece of information that we will be filing away, but turning into that  _here_  could be seen as an act of war so you have to change,  _ **right now.**_ ”

 

Selenes ears droop in their slots beside her horns as her eyelids begin to slide closed.

Change?

_Again?_

 

“But I’m so tired…” she tries to say, but manages only a yawn and a low rumble while her head settles down on her front paw (or is it a claw? She wonders), and she feels momentarily proud of herself for at least managing to get the talons right before her eyes fall closed, heavy beneath the weight of her exhaustion.

 

Footsteps can be heard approaching the room, and Deceit spins on his heel, casting a large glamour over her form in disguise as one of the attendants enters.

Selene would be impressed, if she weren’t so  _tired_.

 

Deceit speaks before the attendant can.

“We will be returning to our own territories immediately,” he informs them. “Please gather whatever is necessary for the trip.”

 

The attendant pauses, but quickly drops into a bow with a nod, and exits as quickly as they had entered.

 

Deceit turns back to Selene, wearing Dirthamens most disapproving face.

 

She lets out a soft whine in response.

–

 

After a lengthy series of contemplation, Dirthamen decides the least damaging thing he can do, is return to his own quarters, to await Selenes return.

Which would be a very wise plan.

If only he had considered that Selene is significantly more social than he is.

 

He is barely up the stairs when he hears someone call for her. It takes a moment, but he turns and gives an awkward wave to the woman calling for her. She is carrying a clipboard, with several series of equations on them.

He is not sure what they are pertaining to.

That is mildly troubling.

 

She is asking for a quick check of her mathematical writing for some sort of presentation she will be giving.

Dirthamen is not entirely positive if her numbers are right or not, but given that he is technically the one she will ultimately be presenting to, he says they are fine so that she will be on her way.

He will check them later.

 

He turns to head back up the stairs when he finds both arms have been seized. Looped through by two other elves who should  _not_ be permitted to touch her without permission and-

Ah.

Melanadahl and Des.

He should have expected as much.

 

Their matching grins have his stomach feeling unsettled, and for a moment he misses having a form that could easily turn gaseous to escape their grasps.

 

“Seleeeeene~” Des singsongs “I finished that little piece you asked me to make you. When will you be over to try it on?”

 

“Piece of what?” Dirthamen asks before he can stop himself. He was unaware she was commissioning Des and his body of…work.

 

Des’s eyebrow quirks in suspicion, but Melanadahl speaks up before he can begin a line of questioning.

Dirthamen does not think he has ever been grateful to have Melanadahl speak up before.

 

“She can’t try it on until after we’ve checked over the newest piece of machinery June’s people had sent over. Can you believe they’re still enchanting oak, rather than glass? And yet  _they’re_ the ones people look to for innovations. It’s embarrassing, really. Are we allowed to embarrass them? Send them back a better version of their own design? Do you think you could swing an approval on that?”

  
“June seems unlikely to take well to that,” Dirthamen-as-Selene frowns.

 

“So it’s June’s approval you’re worried about now?” Melanadahl laughs “A week ago you called their ambassador a barbarian after he tried to get you into his bed.”

 

“He did  _what_?” Dirthamen proclaims, pausing mid step. Not that Selene is not permitted to sleep with whomever she chooses of course. They have not made any vows of a monogamous partnership. Yet. But she hadn’t mentioned anything to him about it. Are there other, similar encounters still occurring she isn’t informing him of? She has been spending each night in his bed, so she isn’t taking any of the other proposals seriously, he supposes. Still, the thought of her doing so with someone else is…not pleasing.

 

“Are you feeling alright?” Des questions, hand pressing against Dirthamen-as-Selenes forehead. “You were with the healers earlier, right? Do you need to lie down?”

 

“I am feeling…adequate. Perhaps my memory has a few gaps, however. Please pardon any discrepancies.”

 

“Sure…” Des hums.

 

“Well, you probably shouldn’t be in the workshop then,” Melanadahl pouts. After a beat, his lips curl into a large grin, and Dirthamen suspects he is not actually broken up about the situation at all as he continues with “Des’s it is, then.”

 

–

 

Selene manages to get herself into a raven-esque form before the attendants return for their trip back into the territories. There are still six eyes and six wings, but nothing about it is screaming 'Dragon’ anymore, so Deceit has calmed down significantly.

Selene is still struggling to contain everything. She’s not quite sure how Dirthamen manages to do this all the time, but she knows there are  _lots_  more massages in his future. Her back is killing her already.

 

The journey out of Arlathan seems calm enough that Selene manages to doze, still perched on Deceit-as-Dirthamens shoulder as the contingent travels into the crossroads.

 

Of course, that is when things get complicated.

 

Deceit hears the arrow with enough time to throw up a barrier, shattering it into splinters. Three assassins shift, positions now compromised as the contingent throws their own spells and weapons towards the assailants.

The battle does not last long. It is all too obvious that these were people who relied too heavily on the element of surprise and their stealth.

Selene would feel bad, if she were not still struggling to hold a form that could mostly-pass for a raven.

 

“We are almost there,” Deceit whispers to her. She takes it as a reassurance that she can doze again, and so she does, trying to ignore the smell of blood coming from the corpses.

–

  
Dirthamen twirls Selenes body, wearing the very, very, short dress she had apparently commissioned from Des. It is opaque only over her hips and breasts, hiding very particular spots from view beneath a white silk that is otherwise thin enough to be translucent. There is a slit up the side to show off the length of her legs, and the back dips down in a steep curve that ends at the top curve of her buttocks.

He quite likes it on her.

He thinks he would like it more if he could not also hear Melanadahls low whistle in approval of it.

 

“You should wear that to work,” he teases.

 

“It does not match the safety parameters of clothing that may be worn in the workshop,” Dirthamen argues “This is clearly made only for bedroom activities.”

 

“That  _is_  what you asked for,” Des chimes in. “Are you sure you don’t want me to bring the torso in a bit more?”

 

“No, this is fine,” Dirthamen assures. “I-He prefers when it is still a bit loose. There is more room for movement, and her-my comfort is very important.”

“Uh-huh,” Des nods, tossing him back the clothing she had been wearing before.

 

Dirthamen moves back into the changing room, and quietly hopes that she will not be too upset with him for ruining the surprise.

–

Deceit takes the fastest route back into Dirthamens chambers once they have crossed back into his territories. Her 'raven’ is beginning to grow extra limbs, and the mask reappearing is only causing more panic to roll off of her as she looks around at the things that were not meant to be seen by others. Her control over the form is slipping, and it is a relief to let her loose into their room.

Selene is also quite happy to be near a bed, he notes, as the form becomes more elvhen and she sprawls out on the expansive mattress.

 

Dirthamen appears not long after, looking worn out himself.

His brow creases as he watches Selenes form shift through an array of colors before striding towards him.

 

“Are you alright?” he asks as she curls around him.

“I’m fine,” she assures him, feeling a bit better already, though still very, very tired. “How are you doing?”

Dirthamen hesitates “I ran into Des and Melanadahl, and found out about June’s ambassador.”

“Oh.”

“You did not tell me they had invited you into their bed.”

“Invited is a very polite way of putting it,” she mutters “But I handled it. I figured you had enough to deal with, I didn’t want to bother you with it.”

 

Dirthamen supposes he can’t really fault her for that. It is good to know she handled it on her own, and was not maliciously keeping secrets from him. His chest feels strangely lighter with the knowledge.   
“In the future, if there are troubles or more improper encounters like that, I would appreciate being told. It is no bother, I assure you.”

 

“Alright,” Selene nods. She pauses for several beats before speaking up again, more quietly “I’m sorry about your family.”

 

Dirthamen panics briefly, before Deceit sends him flashes, memories of the encounter.

Ah.

Nothing too terrible then, at least.

“They are my family,” he evades. “You should be more concerned that you were attacked on the route back.”

 

“Technically  _you_  were attacked.”

 

“No,” Dirthamen insists. “The group responsible for the assault at the crossroads likely knew that I was not inhabiting the body at that time. They switched us, first, so they knew it was you.”

“Why would they want to hurt me?”

 

“Perhaps because it is known you are close to me. Although that is only knowledge within my higher circles which would suggest a leak and that is…concerning, and requires more strenuous investigation. Or perhaps they simply hoped that it would be easier to destroy my body if I were not in it. Then when whatever they put into your body wore off, I would not have anything to return to.”

 

“They probably weren’t wrong,” Selene mumbles, dragging Dirthamen closer to the bed.

 

“No. It is good Deceit was with you.”

 

She sighs as she lays down in the bed, neck and torso elongating as she pulls him down on top of her, arm-like limbs curling around him.

It is an interesting shift to see this from an outside perspective, he thinks.

 

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Selene sighs into the top of his head.

“I will strive not to,” he promises.

 

Her breaths begin to even out beneath him, and it does not take long for him to recognize the particular strain of exhaustion surrounding her. He curls against her, his own exhaustion at the amount of intimate socializing he had undertaken with her friends in an attempt to keep their cover washing over him.

 

When he next wakes, he is back to the usual view of the world through the slits of his mask.

He has never been so grateful to be back in his own body.


	11. Hopelessly Devoted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Character Death in this one

The first time she sees him, he is in mourning.

She has had a body for barely a century. Still an apprentice, but a gifted one. In the wake of recent events, it had become an ‘all capable hands on deck’ situation.

The first time she sees him, he is sleeping. Has been sleeping for a month. His body is formless, a dark liquid spreading across the floors. The only indication that there is a creature in the room is the slow rise and fall of it with each of his breaths. The temperature is significantly lower inside the room, small crystals of ice forming over any actual water. She can see her breath in front of her face with each exhale, and the weight of despair is heavy in the air.

“Quickly now,” Whispers Lenity. “Follow my lead.”

She nods, and watches as steaming hot water is poured over their lord. The fluid form shifts beneath the sudden sensation, thick waves rolling over their feet before settling back into its previous state. Carefully, she does the same, heating the bucket in her hands and pouring the hot water over the creature, which moves once again.

Lenity gives an approving nod, points to the line of buckets around the room, and together they continue the pattern. Their lord gives a soft purr at one point, as the black goo turns to tendrils, and recede back into a more lump-like form in the middle of the room. His scales glisten as she pours the final bucket over them, admiring  the dragon-like form now in front of her. Lenity informs her it is time to go, and as they exit she notes the next group of workers carrying in trays of food like offerings, and wonders for a moment if dragons eat in their sleep.

–

 

The second time she sees him, it is nearly twenty years later and he is wandering the halls in a dark cloak and a shape that is much more elven that it had been during their last encounter. She almost does not recognize him.

But as he passes her, her steps slow. She turns on her heel and stares at his retreating back for a moment. It is, she supposes, a normal part of the process to do follow ups after one has had health issues.

 

She takes several quick steps towards him, much more accustomed to the length of her legs now than she had been when first given a body.

He is about to turn a corner towards his throne room, and she fears it will be another twenty years before she has a chance to ask if she misses this opportunity. 

She will blame her following actions on that fear.

“Areyoufeelingbetter?” she blurts, internally wincing at her lack of proper decorum.

 

His own steps slow. He comes to a full stop, and turns to face her. His head tilts slightly.

“I am sorry?” He says.

She swallows, and shifts nervously back and forth on her heels with a slight bow of her head. “Apologies, my Lord. I-the last time I saw you, you were unwell. I was wondering-that is, I had hoped-” She takes a deep breath and repeats her original question, more slowly. “Are you feeling better?”

 

She cannot make out his expression behind the mask, but she can feel the awkwardness leaking out into the room, even so.

 

“I…believe so?” He says. “Who are you? I do not recall our meeting.”

“Oh!” She says, one hand moving to quickly cover her mouth before she moves into a full body bow. “I am Devotion, my Lord. One of your healers.”

“How long have you been working for me…?” He says, with a note of wonder.

“A little over a century, my Lord,” she admits, a strange tinge of disappointment settling in the pit of her stomach.

 

He nods slowly, and she wonders if maybe this was a mistake after all.

“Thank you for your concern,” He finally responds. “I will let you know if there are further issues.”

Devotion nods, bowing deeply before turning and walking back towards the clinic.

 

–

 

Lord Dirthamen appears in the clinic a week later, and requests her attendance for his wounds.

 

“Is something wrong, my Lord?” She asks, after finding no physical wounds herself.

“Ah. Yes, I…believe I had a stomachache,” he admits.

Devotion nods and takes a step towards him.

“…earlier.”

 

She blinks. “And…now?”

“I do not believe I have any significant health problems at the current moment.”

Devotion blinks again, head tilting in curiosity. “Then, my Lord, may I ask why you are here?”

“I told you I would inform you if I had any concerns about my health.”

“I suppose you did,” She smiles. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

 

He hesitates, and something she is unfamiliar with curls into the room before being abruptly snapped away.

“Will you be at the Labyrinth Running tomorrow?” He asks.

She swallows. “I…I had not planned to be, no.”

“Oh.”

 

There is a thick coat of silence in the room for several minutes then, as Devotion wonders if she should dismiss him, or if that would be grounds for punishment if he wishes to remain.

 

“It is considered a holiday,” He finally continues. “If you are concerned about your work schedule.”

“It is not that. Tomorrow is my rest day already. I…” She swallows nervously, hoping that she is not about to insult him. “I simply find parts of the event to be…cruel. My Lord.”

“Ah.” He says with a curt nod. “It is necessary, for some.”

“I would never doubt your wisdom on that matter. I have been told I have a weak countenance around such things, so I simply avoid them unless necessary,” She shifts nervously on her heels “Is it…necessary for me to attend, my Lord?”

He seems to consider her question for a moment before finally answering “No,” and dismissing himself from the clinic.

 

Devotion stares at the back of his retreating form, and wonders if she has done something wrong.

 

–

 

It is already dark out, when there is a knock on her door. Her hair is still damp from her extended bath, a bit of ink still stained on the tips of her fingers from her earlier studies.

 

Still, she pulls the belt on her robe tighter and opens the door.

And nearly slams it immediately closed again.

 

“H-hello,” She stammers, staring up at the masked face. “Can I…help you?”

“Are you preoccupied?” Dirthamen asks.

Devotion shakes her head slowly, still slightly dazed by his sudden unexpected appearance.

“Would you join me for a walk?” He asks.

 

Devotion glances down at her robes; not fancy, or up to her dress code for work, but neither would it be rude to wear around the castle, she thinks.

“Sure,” She says, closing the door behind her as she joins him.

 

There are more than a few strange looks their way as they continue through the castle, passages she’s only drifted through on her rest days during explorations when she was young. There is a soft rustling of feathers from above them, but that is not an unusual sound lately.

 

He steps through what appears to be a window, and vanishes.

Devotion hesitates before following him through, hoping this isn’t some strange sort of trap.

 

But it is only a garden. A beautiful one, made of translucent and bio-luminescent flowers. Across the horizon, she can see the mountains that border his territory on the east, moon heavy in the sky above them.

“Oh,” she breathes. “This is beautiful.”

He turns, several steps ahead of her and glances down at the garden. “Ah. Yes, this is a popular spot for romantic couples, I am told,” he waves her towards him “But this is what I had hoped to show you.”

 

She walks towards him, glancing out beneath the plateau the castle rests upon, and sees “The Labyrinth?” She asks, stomach twisting slightly. She does not enjoy watching her fellow people fight for their lives in a land where they are meant to be safe. Healing up the survivors is never a pleasant ordeal, and the mental and emotional ramifications of the experience often take years to settle correctly.

 

“It is empty,” He informs her as he picks up on her notes of unease in the air. “The runner has already finished.”

“That was…quicker, than normal.” Devotion notes.

“Yes.”

 

She shifts awkwardly again, wondering if she really wants to hear the answer before softly asking “Did they…complete it?”

“No,” Dirthamen admits. “They were felled by one of Ghilan'nains creatures. She was rather pleased by the way it unfolded.”

“I see…”

“You find that displeasing?”

“You’re asking if I find death displeasing?” She laughs. “Yes. I think you’ll find most people do.”

“Interesting,” He notes. “That has not been my experience.”

 

Devotion swallows, and considers. His brother  _was_  the God of Death, after all. And from what she has heard, none of the Evanuris shy away from using it as a resource whenever they deem it necessary.

Perhaps she has spoken out of turn.

 

“I imagine your experiences would vary greatly from mine, my Lord,” She admits quietly with a bow of her head.

“Do you find me displeasing?” he asks.

She blinks. “No, my Lord.”

“Do you…find me pleasing, then?” he asks, a tinge of nervousness in the air.

“I…” she starts, before nodding. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Interesting.” he mumbles.  His head jerks up suddenly then, and he dismisses himself once again before vanishing.

 

Devotion lets out a heavy breath, and stares down at the labyrinth, unlit and strangely beautiful from this point of view.

 

–

 

The poems arrive first. A six eyed raven on her windowsill, spewing beautiful words strung together like pearls under the cover of night after night.

She is not sure what to make of them initially. She has never been courted before, let alone by someone so significantly above her station.

She sends back a song. A small memory, a piece of her from the dreaming that carried over, sung into a small decorative box and nervously dropped off to his office.

 

A week later she is given a cloak made of starlight and an invitation for another walk through the gardens.

 

They do not discuss it in the light of day. She continues her work in the clinics, and he continues his responsibilities as though nothing had changed. It is a secret, she supposes. Shared between bated breaths and careful fingers, a compass that never points North and dances without music.

Love carefully grown and cultivated, Devotion redirected to a thousand faces on a single man.

She would not trade it for anything.

 

–

 

His back is warm against her stomach, reassuring in it’s steady breaths while she traces patterns and theorems into the skin he wears today.

“I have been thinking of changing my name,” She admits.

He shifts in her arms, turning until he is able to see her. “For what reason?”

She shrugs “Some dreaming born choose to change their names for no reason at all.”

 

His brow lowers skeptically, and she lets out a sigh.

 

“There is another Devotion, in Andruils lands. It should not bother me so, but it was…strange, when they came to visit. They were much younger than I. It seemed to suit them better, somehow, so I thought perhaps a change might be in order.”

“I see,” Dirthamen murmurs “Have you given any thought to what you would like your name to be?”

“I have,” she admits “But I have yet to find one.”

 

One of his hands drifts up from beneath the sheets, feathers brushing gently against her cheek. “I suppose we could officially name you Vhenan, but it would be awkward to hear others call you such.”

Devotion snorts. “Something less romantic would be more appropriate for public use, I think.”

 

He gives a soft noise of affirmation, his hand trailing carefully through her hair, lifting up a few strands and watching them fall “Selene, perhaps?”

“That’s…That’s not bad,” She hums. “Where is it from?”

“A very old story,” Dirthamen informs her. “Derived from a word that meant light, she governed over the moon, and drove chariots across the sky to bring its light in the night.”

She smiles “And you call  _me_  soft.”

 

He gives a shrug in a very ’ _yes well what can you do_ ’ sort of manner and pulls her tighter to him.

 

“Selene,” She murmurs. “I like it.”

“Selene,” he repeats, head nuzzling into her neck as his hands drift back beneath the sheets. “Perhaps we should ensure it holds up in…spontaneous situations.”

 

Well.

He certainly doesn’t need to ask her twice.

 

–

 

The river is the newest addition to their garden. It is wide, and cool, and Devotion visits often to release her stresses, flames immediately doused in its currents.

“You are soft,” Fear lectures her.

“You speak of it like it is a curse. Some awful flaw I seem to possess.”

“Statistically, softness does not survive. That is worrying.”

Selene hums, feet trailing through the water. “Did you know; there are some that say our mountains were formed by water?”

 

Fear is silent, so she continues.

 

“That once, most of our world was covered in it. Water wore away at those great stones for millenia after millenia. Scraping away at the edges, softening away the corners and the roughest bits. Wearing away layer after layer after layer of rock and sediment, until only the pieces we see today were left in the waters wake.”

“What is your point?”

“The rock endured,” Selene smiles. “There is strength to be found in softness.”

 

–

 

She is exploring on one of her rest days. A new nest of Varterrals  had been born, and she was curious to see how they were doing.

She was not expecting to run into company.

 

A group of elves, barefaced and heavily armed are taking the same hidden paths she had been taught, and neither side seems to have been expecting the other.

 

She takes a step backwards, idly cursing herself for not taking the fighting lessons more seriously.

 

But they are faster, and stronger, and more prepared for a battle. Selene runs, shooting off fireballs behind her in an attempt to slow them, but one of their soldiers dispels her flames easily, and in too short a time, they are atop her. Swords drawn and gleaming in the sunlight, she stares at her death and wishes she had instead gone with Dirthamen on his travels.

 

–

 

Fear lights up while Dirthamen is in a meeting with his mother.

He shoots out of his chair as news is relayed that Selene has gone missing.

“Pardon me,” he excuses himself, even as his mother calls for him to return. The guilt of disobeying her is easily drowned out by Fears pervasiveness in his mind. He steps through the dreaming, into the crossroads and through the eluvian closest to her last known whereabouts. There are scorch marks on several trees, multiple sets of footprints, and the unmistakable weaponry of the Nameless.

 

Fear grows larger as he follows, his form growing heavier and heavier as he hopes beyond hope that he is wrong. How he longs to be wrong, today.

 

But he finds several strands of white hair besides a pool of blood. A trail of it leads to a lake, deeper than it should be, and a frequent watering hole for the local wildlife.

A familiar cloak is floating on the surface.

 

He can not move. He is unsure how to cope with this. There was no battle, no decision to make, nothing he could have done. Forced her to go with him, perhaps? But he had no reason to think she would be unsafe here, in  **his**  territory.

_Someone will pay_ , he decides, an emotion rising within him that makes him think of his father and brother.

It is unsettling, burning within him in a way that is not familiar, and very painful.

 

He slips into the dreaming, looking for the trail of those who have slain her.

Several spirits inform him of various traits that seem to line up with each other, and he sends the information off with Deceit to track them down.

 

He almost misses the shard as it drifts past him.

 

He blinks, before reaching up to touch it. It glows brighter in response, and a handful of memories flow out of it; one of their nights in the garden, a meal she shared with Lenity when she was apprenticed, setting and healing a broken arm on a child.

_Devotion._

 

He looks around for any other pieces of her that may be nearby, but any others must have vanished by now, too small to survive.

Carefully, he forms a protective casing around the shard, tucking it securely into his cloak.

 

Deceit finds the group that had killed Selene, and Dirthamen allows them to kill them on sight; they do not deserve a chance of redemption for their crimes. There is no argument from any piece of himself on the matter.

 

He remains more focused on keeping the piece of her that seems to have survived safe, until he is all the way back to his private chambers.

He carefully takes her out of his cloak, ensuring she has not weakened drastically outside of the dreaming.

Once he has confirmed that it is stable, he removes his mask, placing it carefully on the bed beside him. His form slumps, weighed down as he allows his grief to escape from him. Tears pour from his eyes, feathers shed from his back and he wishes, desperately, that she were here beside him. To ease things, to assure him that this was only a nightmare. Some demon plaguing him, some remnant of his guilt for his brother reminding him that he did not deserve to have something good in his life.

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps this is a punishment, a reminder that he is supposed to be alone. That those that are soft, and sweet, and kind and  _good_ would not remain at his side.

The shard glows dimly in response, and he slowly manages to stand. One step, then another, until he is beside it once more. It lights up again in his presence.

Carefully as he can, he picks it up in his ungloved hands.

The shard vanishes into his skin, and he panics; no,  _ **no**_ , that was the last of her, she can not be gone, please, please.

_Please do not take this from him, too._

 

He catches his reflection in a mirror, and stops.

Where his heart should be, there is a familiar glow. Bright, and warm, and  _soft_.

 

It is not the ending he wanted.

But it is more than he could ask for.


	12. Fairy AU

The wind seems to come from nowhere.

One moment, Selene is picking seeds from the Sunflower before they can fall out with the rising sun. The next, there is a flurry and the sound of a stalk snapping beneath the weight of a too-large bird. She snatches onto the nearest petal as the flower head goes crashing to the ground, holding on as tight as she can to keep from tumbling off and into the unknown dangers of the tall grass. Not that she is any  _less_  of a meal while seated atop the sunflower; but even a false feeling of security is better now, with the moon barely a sliver in the sky and many of the stars covered by passing clouds.

She almost does not notice the man, as he dismounts to approach her.

He is covered in a cloak made of feathers that match the eerily dark shimmer of the Raven, who is still perched atop the remaining stem and peering down at where she and the half-plucked flower have landed.

“Did you come to harm?” The man asks, staring down at her in a manner that mirrors the bird above.

She does not answer.

These are not  _safe_  lands.

  
Technically, they are in a neutral territory between courts.

Technically, members of any house may farm and feed and cross here.

And  _technically_ , she is still trespassing.

 

The mans head tilts, and she cannot make out his expression behind the mask he is wearing.

There are legends, of course. Legends of other courts, other houses, other schools. Those who dabble with humans and animals and magic that comes from places besides the earth itself.

She has heard such legends of a masked man, who comes disguised as a raven. One whose shape may change, who tells lies and steals secrets, trapping those who are unwary within walls of stone and false memories, and uses magic from those that can still bleed.

They say that he will steal your tongue right out of your mouth; that he will take whatever words you offer to him and twist them into ties of fate, adding your face to the thousands he has already stolen.

They say if you are particularly unwary, he will still the breath from your lungs and run off into the night with your still beating heart in his hands.

 

One of her hands clutches tightly at the strap of her dress, where it rests above her heart.

Still thumping.

Louder, heavier, and more quickly than she is used to; but still  _hers_.

 

“Did you hear me?” He asks, stepping close enough that his shadow looms over her.

She does not answer.

He kneels down, his face near enough now that she could reach out and touch him, if she dared. Her heartbeat quickens again, and she lets out a slow breath.

She will not let him steal her heart.

She may not have as many uses for it as some, but it is still  _hers_. 

There are few things that still hold that particular attribute.

 

When he moves closer still, Selene sits up. Her face only a breath from his.  _If_  he breathes.

  
There are older legends too, she remembers.

Legends where youths would steal items from powerful creatures; from those who would otherwise hold power over them. They would be indebted to the person who held such an item. Required to do as commanded. To come when called.

To protect them, when asked.

 

Selene imagines for a moment, her heart in the beak of a bird. Still frozen and with no hope of a cure with it taken from her.

_**No**_.

 

She does not have many gifts left to her; most have been stripped, or traded away. But she still has her voice, and when she begins to sing both man and bird become dazed. Slow, and complacent, their auras soft and quiet and still. Her movements match the melody as it stirs around her, fingers gentle as they tuck around the edges of the mask-

and  _pull_.

 

It pops off with shockingly little resistance, a burst of magic erupting around them while blue eyes stare back at her in wonder and, perhaps, even a tint of admiration.

She stares back for a moment, the last notes of her song still heavy in the air and mingling with the dust kicked up by his own.

  
Then she does what she does best.

She runs.

* * *

Selene doesn’t bother looking over her shoulder as she runs.

Whether he is following her or not, it does not change her own actions.

She keeps the mask clutched tightly to her chest as she moves, darting over stones and roots as she slips through barriers, protective magics gliding over her skin as though she doesn’t exist.

There are some perks, she supposes, to her situation.

The bag of seeds bounces painfully against her thigh with each step as she moves silently and quickly through the brush, past sleeping predators and drowsy guards and towards the Forest of Ash. Long abandoned and deemed too perilous for the people (one of very few matters each court and house could manage to agree on), it is the only place she considers  _safe_  for her patient.

She is out of breath when she finally sees the decayed log she’s enchanted for cover. The sound of beating wings long forgotten in the still and silence of the forest. The smell of rot and carbon is thick in the air, remnants of a once proud forest still lingering deep beneath the soil, buried under layers and layers of ash. Long forgotten and slow to grow, but with enough inherent magic that she can pull from it to create a small barrier for herself as she approaches.

Desire senses her as surely as she senses him;

But it is not a good day.

 

He leaps for her, long nails clawing at the exposed skin of her arms as he shoves her into the decaying wood of the log. His teeth are elongated, sharp and gleaming like the red in his normally golden eyes while he screams and thrashes and tries to take from her everything he thinks is missing in himself.

But it is not the first time he has had a bad day, and knows panicking only makes matters worse.

 

“It’s just me,” She soothes, her own hands cupping around his elbows while his nails keep trying to tear the skin off of her forearms. “It’s me, it’s just me. I brought back food, it is in the pouch on my waist. Des, it’s  _me_.”

He pauses, the red steadily draining from his eyes while they stare at her, and she tries to hold him steady.

Once the thrashing has ceased, she moves, slowly, carefully, for the satchel hooked into her belt. She opens it, and he immediately seizes it from her, teeth splintering the shells of the sunflower seeds to get at the food inside.

It will still take him a few minutes to remember himself, she knows. For the gnawing hunger in his gut to abate and for him to remember himself as more than his basic needs. When his skin will be a less alarming shade of purple and his teeth and nails will return to a more manageable size. The horns and tail will remain though; too late for her to reverse those now.

The mask is on the floor, knocked out of her grip in the attack. She bends down to pick it up, and when she straightens, there is a familiar pair of blue eyes staring back at her from an upside down face.

 

She does not scream, but it is a very near thing.

 

“You are injured,” he notes, body moving like a fluid until his feet are on the ground and he is right-side up again. His gaze moves over her shoulder, to Des, still crouched behind her and gorging himself on sunflower seeds. “Did that one hurt you?”

“No,” Selene lies.

The mans eyes narrow, and she hears a dull ‘thud’ overhead; like a bird landing atop a thin piece of wood.

She clenches his mask more tightly.

 

“You should not be here,” She says.

“You have stolen something of mine. Did you think I would not come for it?”

She takes a step back. “I did not think you could follow me.”

 

He makes a small noise, similar to a hum but wrong in the way that it echoes. “I had to slip through different levels of perception to accomplish it without breaking treaties and causing a war, that is true. It is very impressive you were able to take the route you did; if I were anyone else, it might even have worked,” He holds out a hand, skin shimmering as it shifts like waves to form fingers. “But now, I will need to have my mask back.”

Selene pulls the item taut to her chest. “No.”

 

He ponders her answer for a moment, confusion appearing briefly around him. Clearly unused to being denied.

Well. Some lessons simply need to be learned, she supposes.

 

His gaze flits back over to Des, and he gives a small decisive nod before his fingers snap and the demon behind her makes a loud choking sound. Clutching for his throat, screaming obscenities and cries for help as his nails rend and claw at the space around him. Selenes eyes widen in horror as she turns back to the man behind her.

“Stop that!” She demands. “Stop that, you are  _hurting_  him!”

 

The man blinks in surprise, and releases Des, who falls to the floor in a limp heap, taking long, shuddering breaths, flecks of red blinking back to life in his eyes. Selene runs to him, one hand rubbing at his back in a soothing manner. But the corruption is spreading in his panic, in fear of being attacked in this place she has tried so hard to make safe for him, and she has to hastily sing him to sleep. It is more forceful than she cares to be; but with his body resting, he can do no physical harm at least.

 

“I thought you had stolen my mask for protection,” The man says slowly. “Is that not what you wished?”

“I don’t need protection from Des,” Selene whispers, finger soothing a piece of hair from his face. “This was not his fault.”

“He is a demon,” The man informs her, as though she might not have noticed on her own. “He is corrupted; he will need to be shattered, or he will likely kill you.”

 

Her fists ball at the sides of her dress as she stands to face him again. “I am not going to  _shatter_  him! It is not his fault this happened, he did not ask to be-” She bites down on her bottom lip to keep from saying any more. It would be unwise to share any more information on their situation than is necessary.

“You are from the Court of Shadows, I suppose. To think so little of those who have strayed from their path.”

The mans head tilts slightly. “Yes. And no.”

Her eyes narrow slightly as she gestures for him to continue.

“I am both from the court, and one of its originators. My name is Dirthamen. And I would very much like my mask back, please.”

 

Selene nearly drops it in shock.

 

She had known those who ruled the courts were powerful; that they were beautiful and dangerous and fickle. That you should never cross them, for their retribution was swift and damning and malevolent.

A lesson she is already well acquainted with.

But she has already stolen from him, and he has not killed her yet. Either possession of the mask really  _does_  grant her some level of protection from him, or else….or else? If it didn’t, surely she would already be dead, Des already shattered.

“No,” She repeats.

 

Dirthamen frowns.

“Would you be interested in a trade, perhaps?”

“What would you give me in return?”

“Riches. Food. Information, if you seek it.”

 

Tempting. It is impossible for her to do any research on her current condition  _under_  her current condition. Access to a cure would be…

“What sort of information?” She asks.

“Whatever you would like, provided I have access to it. You need only ask.”

 

_Always a catch_ , she thinks bitterly.

 

But she has to  _try_. She can’t describe the curse in detail; can not describe the symptoms, or the effects. Cannot speak of the thorned vines crawling through her and smothering her magics, that rob her of her gifts as surely as the breath in her lungs. That slow the beats of her heart at an excruciating pace. That keep her wings from unfurling, from repairing from the rips and the tears and leaving her only with the shredded remains tucked beneath her clothes with the bruises that still bloom, even so long after their birth.

“A rose in the corner of my mouth,” She murmurs.

His head tilts slightly, curious at her words.

  
“I want access to the information myself,” She decides. “Unfettered access. And protection. No harm is to come to me while I am still searching for the knowledge I seek. Or to Des.”

Dirthamen nods slowly in agreement. “I can guarantee your safety-”

“I do not want a guarantee,” Selene insists. “I know the old ways; I want an  _oath_. I want your solemn, unbreakable vow that no harm will come to us if I return your mask to you. Otherwise you could kill me as soon as you have it, with no consequence but another corpse to rot in a forgotten forest”

 

He considers it.

And then takes a knee before her, hand in his as his lips press to her knuckles. Blood is still slowly seeping down her arm from Des’s attacks, but he does not seem bothered by it.

Magic rises up around them, swirling through the air as he whispers an oath in a language she though long forgotten. Warmth spreads through her from where he touches her, magic trying to seep into her but sliding off and away like water, pooling instead where Des still rests.

When Dirthamen pulls back, he looks at her curiously.

“That is…unusual.”

She supposes she could try to explain that it is harder for most magics to affect people that do not exist, but likely any follow up questions would veer too close to discussion of her situation and its particulars, and that would be impossible.

“I think you will find I am unusual in a whole host of ways,” she says instead.

His lips quirk, and he holds his hand out towards her once again.

Hesitantly, she places his mask back into it.

 

“Thank you,” He says, re-affixing it to his face. “If you will follow me, I will take you to where the information you seek resides.”

“I did not agree to leave with you,” Selene argues. “Bring the information to me.”

“You asked for unfettered access, and to look it up yourself. I am capable of much; but I do not think the contents of my libraries will fit inside of your…” he hesitates, eyes scanning over the burnt and rotting log she is still inside. “…home.”

 

Six large, feathered wings spring from beneath his cloak, and he gently lifts off and out of her log. He turns back to her, hand outstretched as he waits for her to join him.

She does not wish to tell him that she can no longer fly.

“I will ride on one of your birds instead,” She evades. “To ensure Des does not slide off during the journey.”

 

Dirthamen does not seem pleased by her words, but does not argue as the one he calls Deceit lands beside them. Selene carefully carries Des to them, slinging him over before situating herself into a more usual riding position, securing the demon into her lap. 

Dirthamen flies alongside them, and Selene tries to contain the joy that rises in her from being in the air again. From the wind blowing through her hair and the stars so much closer as the cool air flows over her overheated skin. From how much smaller the long paths and trails she must take on foot seem from up above; how much grander the world looks, and how much smaller her troubles feel without stones digging into the soles of her feet.

It is exhilarating, and she cannot seem to stop smiling for much of the trip.

 

“Perhaps we should go flying more often,” Dirthamen notes as they land on the branch of a large, twisting willow tree. It is very old, and when her feet touch the wood she can feel the thrum of spacial magic carved into it, curling through its leaves and stretching out through the expansive root system.

“Perhaps,” She evades, carefully carrying a still unconscious Des along behind Dirthamen as he pulls aside a piece of bark to reveal a long spiraling staircase inside the trunk of the tree.

 

Her feet are aching, crying out for a rest after being spoiled with the ride over as she continues following the cloaked man before her, until a door appears before them.

“You may stay here,” He informs her. “Those who you do not wish to find you will be unable to. There is a link between this room and my own, if you have need of me, or my resources.”

She nods, stepping inside cautiously.

 

The room smells fresh; like newly bloomed chamomile and carved wood, and she takes a deep breath as it fills her. Thankful to be far from the stench of death and sulfur, and to have a room with a proper bath.

“Thank you,” she breathes.

“It is no trouble,” He assures her “But you should not let your friend wander out of here; if he is discovered, my people will try to shatter him. That would be most unpleasant for all of us.”

 

She nods in understanding, and Dirthamen dallies in her doorway expectantly.

“…Is there something you need from me?” She asks carefully.

“I will need a name,” He admits. “You still have not told me yours.”

“I do not have one. I have not had one for some time now.”

 

His face twists in uncertainty, but she thinks he has caught on to the fact that there are some questions she is simply not able to answer plainly. “What would you like me to call you then?” He tries.

 

She smiles in relief, finally able to say her name aloud.

“Selene. Please call me Selene.”

* * *

Des wakes before she does.

Beams of light are beginning to stream through the colorful glass holes in their ceiling, his eyes back to their usual gold as he stares at her bandaged arms.

Selene lets out a breath of guilty relief; if he’s worried, he’s remembered himself. Which makes him much less likely to attack her.

 

“Did I damage your arms?” He asks with a frown.

“No,” She lies. “I fell into a blackberry bush trying to reach for one I thought might be ripe last night.”

He doesn’t fully believe her (he never does), but knows better by now than to try to pull a truth from her she doesn’t want to share.

“You should be more careful,” He says instead.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” She assures him, sitting up to stretch her arms up over her head. They sting anew with the exertion, and she’s going to have to change the bandages every few hours to avoid infection or blood becoming noticeable, but it’s manageable. She’ll have to see if she can find a needle and thread to pull the worst of the openings back together while she’s searching for a cure today.

 

She takes advantage of the bath Dirthamen has allotted her, carefully scraping dirt from her skin and plucking the twigs and seeds and pollen from her hair. It takes nearly 3 rounds with the shampoo before it finally regains it’s natural white color, rather than the dusty grey it had absorbed from so long without a proper wash. The skin on her shoulders has gotten burnt and flaky from too much sun exposure. Selene hesitates before carefully stripping the transparent, uselessly dried skin from them. The remaining flesh is tender and hot to the touch, and she’s not looking forward to having to cover them with fabric for the rest of her life.

She wonders if there is any part of her that  _isn’t_  damaged at this point. She had never realized just how much harm she caused her body on a daily basis before her current condition.

She may have even less time than she had been expecting, at this rate.

 

She steps out of the bathroom, enjoying the fresh scent of lavender in the towels as she dries and tells Des to take a wash himself.

There is a small wardrobe in the room, filled with various clothing items. She claims a pair of black pants that stops just above her ankles as well as a loose purple blouse that is long enough to tuck in, and cover the fresh bandages wrapped up the length of her forearms. She tops it off with a silver cloak that shimmers when she sways in it. Not enough to be flashy, but it’s a pleasant enough effect that it makes her smile.

It’s important to enjoy the little things, sometimes.

 

Setting out for the library, she decides that even here, her best bet is to stick to the shadows. She stays close to the old oak walls, the hood of her cloak covering her face. No one stops her for most of the way, which is for the best, and what she wanted, until she realizes she has ended up in the same foyer for the third time.

_Damn spacial magic._

 

Her best bet then, is to wait for someone to pass her who is already going where she wants to go. Patience has never been her strong suit, even before she had a time limit officially allotted to her existence. Nor is it a part of her that has improved.

Thankfully, it does not take too long for her to find another fairy pushing a cart filled with books and scrolls through the room, and she trails a few feet behind them on their journey. Up hidden staircases that smooth to permit the cart easier travel, down sealed hallways decorated with murals that tell old stories, doors, and over a small creek that whispers and cools her feet while it tries to convince her to drink from it.

 

The fairy only turns to her once, when she gets too close and accidentally brushes up against the leather of their outstretched wing.

They whip around to face her, eyes narrowing. “You should not be here,”

“Just looking for the library,” She assures them.

“Then you should be taking the main paths.”

“Well, if I knew where those  _were_ , maybe…” She mumbles.

“I will find someone to escort you-” They state, turning back to face their cart of books.

As soon as they do, the usual happens.

 

Selene takes a silent step back, and doesn’t bother trying to stop it. They’ve almost arrived to the library anyways, she’s pretty sure.

The fairy shakes their head, mumbles something quietly to themselves about imagining things, and continues their walk to the library.

 

Selene follows along, more careful now not to draw their attention again.

 

They finally arrive at two large stone doors, covered in a thin layer of moss towards the top. The doors open inward at their arrival, and someone greets the fairy she had been following-Turmoil, supposedly- while she slips off into the stacks.

She spends several hours pouring through them, nabbing any books that correlate to cures and curses and even a few on the average life spans of flowers.

A few make mention of the curse she has, of people that have cast them. Never the person to bear the curse, of course. Only of the ‘righteous judgment’ of the royals to cast them on nameless and faceless fae that have 'deserved’ it.   
As though anyone  _deserves_  such a fate, she thinks bitterly.

 

Her research doesn’t bear fruit. As she reads each story and record of past occurrences, of potential theories for cures, she can find only one that has ever brought about the end of her curse.

Death itself.

She feels the vines tighten around her heart, and tries not to cry as her stomach goes cold.

 

–

 

Dirthamen wakes up feeling as though something in his home is just slightly… _off_.

It is difficult to ascertain just what aspect of his day has shifted, though his aspects seem to assure him that they can also feel the disturbance.

 

His routine is the same as he recalls it ever being. His duties are not outside their usual parameters of strangeness, and he even takes the care to ensure he has each of the required nutrients with his afternoon meal, in case of some sort of vitamin deficiency.

Neither Fear nor Deceit report any strange activity in the court. There are rumors of books going missing in the library, but most have been accounted for by the end of the day. Likely some mischievous spirit making trouble for his librarians again.

 

He is still pondering the matter when the sun has set, and he is returning to his rooms.

There is light, coming from the room besides his own.

…who could be in there?

He stops outside, about to turn the knob and demand to know who would make such a presumption when he recalls that he had permitted a nearly corrupted spirit of Desire to take residence there.

…Though,  _why_  he had made such a decision, he can not seem to recall.

He tries to remember if there are any ongoing projects that would require a demon for a power source, but can think of none. Nor any curiosities of his own that would cause him to make such a dangerous decision.

Has he fallen prey to a demons tricks without knowing? That would be very troublesome, and a sign of weakness if one of the other courts were to discover it.

 

He opens the door, and discovers an unusual fae sitting in one of his chairs.

Not quite a demon yet, he notes with interest. They have horns curling outward from their forehead and a long, pointed tail swaying beside the legs of the wooden chair. Their hair is long and dark and not unlike his own. But their feet end in toes and their hands have fingers rather than claws, and their eyes do not reflect the madness that is often associated with a corrupted spirit.

He recalls attacking this fae yesterday. But he cannot think of why, or what goal he had been trying to achieve by doing so.

 

“You are feeling better?” Dirthamen ventures. Perhaps the man in front of him does not know that  _he_  does not know what either of them are doing here.

“…Yeah,” The man says slowly. “Do I know you?”

“I…” Dirthamen starts, as a woman wanders into the room, arms laden down with the missing books and a few scrolls of parchment.

 

A hood falls from her head, and all at once, he recalls the previous evening. The sunflower, the Forest of Ash. Her theft, and his oath.

Her name.

 

“Useless information,” Selene grumbles, books bouncing as she drops them onto the bed he had given her. “Nothing worth anything in here, bloody researchers not bothering to do any  _actual_ research…”

“I forgot you,” Dirthamen admits. Not an admission he thinks he should have spoken aloud, but not one he feels should be contained, either.

Selene looks over at him and lets out a soft, nearly pitying sigh. “Yeah.”

 

“How did I forget you?” He asks as she takes off the mithril cloak and hangs it back in the wardrobe.

“You are going to have a great many questions for me,” She evades with a shrug. “There will be very few that I may answer. I apologize now, but I will not be able to apologize each time, or we will have little time for anything else. You found me in the sunflower fields last night, and followed me when I…”she hesitates. “…seemed to have caught your interest. You made an oath of protection to myself and Des and offered us space in your home and access to your resources.”

“When you stole my mask, you mean.”

 

She stills slightly, before tilting her head in curiosity. “You remember that?”

“I remember our previous encounter, yes. But I did not recall you today, why is that?”

She chews on her bottom lip and seems almost close to giving an answer before dragging a frustrated fist through her hair and giving him a vague “Out of sight, out of mind.”

 

“You’re the first one to remember her since me,” Des chimes in. “Normally she’s erased from minds entirely. She must have made  _quite_  an impression.”

“It’s probably the oath,” Selene says dismissively. “Power in words. His magic remembers, even when he doesn’t.”

Dirthamen frowns, taking a seat in one of the other empty chairs. “I do not understand,” He says again.

 

Selene rubs at her forehead and begins walking back and forth in a small circle. “For instance, I introduced myself to your worker, Turmoil, three separate times today.”

“When they saw you, you were caught, and when they turned they just forgot,” Des sings lightly while Selene nods.

 

“So when I cannot see you, I will not remember you exist?” Dirthamen clarifies. “That seems troublesome.”

“Yeah, I’m sure its a real pain in the ass for you, personally,” Des snorts.

“It is a condition of your affliction, then?” Dirthamen asks.

“I can’t answer that,” Selene says.

He supposes that is as good as a yes, under current circumstances.

 

An interesting perk to a curse, he thinks. And for it to affect him, the person who cast it must have been…hm…

Keeping his oath may be more troublesome than he expected.

 

“I will have to keep an eye on you, then,” he decides, summoning Deceit. The aspect shifts into their smaller fae form to fit into the room. “Deceit, it will be your job to make sure we do not forget again.”

“Will that work?” Des asks, taking a large bite out of a grape.

“We are the same person; it should.”

 

“I…” Selene hesitates. Likely uncomfortable with the prospect of being watched at all hours of the day, but it cannot be helped. He cannot ensure she is not being harmed if he does not know who she is.

“I will be able to escort you through our home,” Deceit assures her, attempting to ease the situation. “My presence will also permit you to enter places that would not appear without me.”

“You promised me unfettered access though,” She frowns.

“And this will ensure that,” Deceit agrees.

 

Selene does not seem particularly pleased with the arrangement, but offers no more arguments on the matter. Dirthamen lingers in her rooms, browsing through the books she carried in in hopes of discovering what  _precisely_  is the cause of her affliction, but they cover a large variety of topics. It opens as many possibilities as it dismisses, and leaves him only with more questions that she can not seem to answer.

He stares with more than curiosity at the bandages on her arms before he is finally asked to leave so that she might sleep for the night. Deceit remains, taking the newly vacated chair while Dirthamen returns to his rooms.

 

He does not sleep much himself, mind too full of possibilities and problems and potential with the woman on the other side of the wall.

 

When he does drift into the dreaming, he finds himself flooded with images of rose bushes growing.

Fragile and dangerous and beautiful all at once.

Flowers blooming from mouths and wounds and cracked skin on an empty face, as the chill of winter settles in around him, leaving him with a vague but overwhelming sense of failure.

 

A lingering loss of something he never had.

* * *

Life inside of Dirthamen’s tree is very different than the life she had experienced on the outside.

It is quiet, to start.

 

Before she ran, the court she served in had not been. There was always noise somewhere; snapping bones or whirring machinery, dripping fluids, screams of the unlucky.

 

The price for a lack of luck in Dirthamen’s court is much less severe, in comparison.

 

Although if she’s honest, Selene supposes she is feeling luckier than she ever has.

She has been granted access to the largest library she has ever seen, she has earned the favor of a spirit of Deceit, and she has gained a vow of protection from one of the Courtly Kings.

And in all the midst of it all, she has found a home.

 

She had, perhaps, been unsure at first. Much of her life had been spent in a court, and they were not a place she ever enjoyed being. The thought of being kept in yet another gave her reason for quite a few concerns. But there are no screams here, no whirs of machinery with blood flowing through the cogs, no bones being snapped and reset or debts being paid with literal pounds of flesh.

 

Even being under Deceits constant eye is not so terrible. It is nice, after so long, to be remembered.

They are at her side every moment of the day, and if they are not than it is either Fear or Dirthamen himself who is. Even Des has found an unlikely friend in them, and the knowledge that he now has someplace to be, someplace to exist, someplace  _safe_  and far far away from where they ran soothes something deep inside her, even through the tangled vines.

The vines which still grow, even now.

 

More of her gifts are lost; a few weeks into their stay, Des has another Event. His eyes turn red and his nails become claws and he shrieks in pain and strikes out at her in fury and rage. She finds out then that her song no longer works; her words, her last cord of power cut away from her as she feels the buds inside of her begin to grow ever larger.

 

Deceit saves her that night, with a powder that sends Des into a peaceful slumber.

 

She feels exhausted, by the end of it. Drained and powerless and empty after trying to pull and pull and pull at her magics that no longer respond.

Forgotten by pieces of herself.

She weeps into their feathers, and mourns the loss of her own.

 

She wakes the next morning in Dirthamen’s arms, lying in her own bed.

Panic hits her first.

But as she sits up and realizes her arms have been re-bandaged in her sleep, her clothing the same as it had been the evening before, and that he is fully dressed himself, she relaxes. Her body tingles from overexposure to magic, radiating through her arms and legs and still tender shoulders.

…Had he tried to heal her, in her sleep?

 

“Deceit had mentioned you were distressed,” Dirthamen speaks up from behind his mask. “I attempted to aid you, but it appears my magics are still having difficulty penetrating whatever spell you are under the effects of.”

“Thank you for the attempt,” Selene says anyways.

“Would you tell me where you came from?” He finally asks. Selenes shoulders slump. He has been dodging around the question for some time now, through questions of food preferences and customs and rules during their many shared meals.

 

Technically, she could tell him, even under her curse.

But she desperately doesn’t  _want_  to.

 

“No,” She says quietly. It stings at her differently than the thorns do, but the pain of lying to him is the same. She has no reason not to trust him, not now, not after everything he has shown her. But even with the distance between his Court and her own…It feels as though just speaking of it, that acknowledging such a place truly exists, would bring its horrors crashing back down to them here. Would undo the safety that Des has found, and the comfort she takes in their arrangement. That it could tie Dirthamen, somehow, to  _him_.

There is far too much power in words to make such a mistake.

 

Dirthamen lets out a soft sigh, and sits up behind her.

“Alright,” He says, and she is grateful for the allowance as tension falls from her shoulders.

 

He turns to stare at her through his mask, and she feels her heart beat harder in her chest. It is silly. He is a King of his Court, and there is nothing appealing about those sorts to her. They are power hungry, and manipulative, and often quite mad.

But as his hand rests gently and reverently under her chin and his thumb rubs absently over her lips, something deep inside of her blooms. It is warm, and it is wonderful, and it pulls all of her attentions from her constant pain and weariness into focus of where her lips meet his thumb.

 

It has been a very long time since someone other than Des touched her purposely, and without rage.

She spots her reflection in the shine of his mask, and feels anything that might have become something  _more,_  turn cold.

Her face is still bruised and discolored, her cheekbones burnt from the sun, and her mouth looks as though no one has  _ever_  considered it ‘appealing’. She can’t even remember the last time her lips didn’t crack, didn’t bleed, didn’t have an indent from the way she chews them while she works. How long has it been since some part of her could be considered soft, or inviting? Since long before she ran, surely.

There is nothing she could offer to a King. Not as she is.

No. It is a silly, fleeting thought. Some desperate part of her craving affection and connection after so long without, under the pressure of her impending death.

She closes her eyes, and takes a breath.

 

“I’m sorry,” She whispers, without really knowing what specifically she is apologizing for.

The king blinks beneath his mask, somehow equally confused by her apology.

“It is no trouble,” He assures her, standing from the bed and releasing her from his touch. “I had hoped, however, that you might take a break from your research for the day to join me at the festival?”

“There is a festival?”

“Yes. The harvest festival will be taking place today. The Autumnal court has encountered unusual flooding this year, and so I had agreed to host on behalf of my sister. Many of the courts will be sending representatives; perhaps you will encounter someone there with some familiarity of your situation.”

  
Selene feels her stomach drop out from beneath her, the vines around her heart slowing its pace dramatically at news of the changing seasons.

“Is it…really harvest time already?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t-I can’t take a day off, Dirthamen. It’s so-time is-I’m-” Selene lets out a low growl of frustration, hands clenching in the blankets. “I can’t.”

The King nods, and gives her a bow. “Alright. I hope that your search bears fruit.”

Selene swallows around the dry feeling in her mouth, trying not to laugh at his inadvertent pun. “Thank you.”

 

–

 

The sounds of the festival carry into Des’s room, as he mopes and tries to spy out the window at the events below.

“Selene, they have  _sparklers_ ,” he whines. “Can’t we just go-”

“No,” She interrupts, turning the page in her current book. It is not very helpful, though it does contain a rather interesting concept of manipulating time to turn juice into wine more expediently.

“I’m tired of this room,” He huffs, slumping into a chair. “Can’t we just glamour ourselves?”

“You can’t disguise your horns or tail,” Selene points out. “Even if no one knew who you were, they would think you corrupted and have you shattered.”

“Dirthamen would protect me,” He mutters.

“But he shouldn’t have to,” Selene argues. “Just-you can go to the harvest festival next year, alright?”

“ _You_  can’t.”

Selene shoots him a withering glare that makes him shrink further into the dark wooden chair before she returns her attentions to the book.

 

“…Is it really harvest time already?” Des asks quietly, staring at his ceiling.

“Apparently so.”

“The next festival will be to bring in winter-”

“I know,”

“-And that’ll be too late, no matter what you find-”

“I  ** _know_**!” Selene snaps, slamming the book in front of her closed.

 

Silence hangs heavy in the room in the wake of her outburst.

 

“What happens in winter?” Deceit finally pipes up from where they had been resting on the bed.

Selenes face scrunches as she fails to find words; can’t spoil an ending you don’t actually know, so she can’t say anything at all, it seems.

“The curse culminates,” Des says for her.

Deceits face drops as they turn to Selene. “That is very soon.”

“Thanks, I didn’t know,” Selene drawls sarcastically.

“Is there anything we can do to assist you?”

She gives them an over dramatic shrug, and leans back in her own chair. “I couldn’t say, even if there were.”

 

Deceits face contorts while they seem to be having a mental conversation with their connected aspects.

“How will this affect our vow?”

“I don’t know,” Selene admits. “The damage happened before I met you, so I assume you won’t be obligated to protect me from its effects. If your magic still affects those outside the realm of life, I imagine at the very least you will still be obligated to protect Des.”

“But you do not know for sure,” Deceit checks.

Selene nods. “I just don’t have the necessary information.”

“That is very frustrating for us.”

“Yeah, well…You’re not the only ones.”

–

 

The festival comes to an end as the dawn begins to emerge; a new day for a new season.

Dirthamen has been gone for the entirety of the event, and some part of Selene missed sharing their usual meal together. There is a high likelihood that he ate during the festival, but she has noticed he does forget such things on occasion.  
While Des still slumbers in his bed, Selene sneaks out of his rooms and down the halls to Dirthamens own.

Perhaps he would enjoy sharing a breakfast with her, in lieu of their missed dinner…?

There is something intensely intimate about the thought, and she shakes it away from her head, mind distracted from other matters as she opens the heavy wooden doors between them.

 

Ice down her spine.

_No_.

No, he can’t be  _here_. Not here, not where she is safe, where she sleeps tucked into wings and sheltered from his violence. From his touch, from the way he lashed out at her, at Des, at anyone unfortunate enough to be within arms reach. Her heart tightens in her chest, vines thicker and stronger, and rejuvenated in their masters presence.

 

She means to step back, to turn and close the doors before he can spot her, but it is too late.

His eyes lock onto her with instant recognition; the only one who could.

The one who cursed her in the first place.

 

His lips turn up in a sneer as he raises his chin, commanding her with a “Come to me,” that she is helpless but to follow. Sharp, jewel covered talons curl around her jaw, yanking her towards him, close enough that she can see and smell the blood still on his teeth. Even now, even after all she has done to escape him and what he has done to her; he has found her. He has  _found_  her, and her bodyremembers in the worst way, survival warring with conditioning as her mind screams to flee and to fly and to  _run_.

  
“Brother,” Dirthamen speaks up as he places a gloved hand on her masters shoulder, and Selene feels a sting of betrayal shoot through her. That this man she trusted, that she cared for, that she thought she might have…

None of it was real.

He was connected the whole time; he must have been, must have tracked her down for her master and lulled her into a false sense of security to waste what little time she had remaining. Had he known that she would never find her answers here? 

He has played her for a fool; and she had played the part far, far too willingly.

  
  


Tears sting in her eyes, nearly blinding her as Falon'dins talons scrape against her cheeks.

“I’ve found you little bird,” He coos “Now; where have you gone and hidden my Desire?”  
  



	13. Monster Hunter AU

She never meant to start a collection.

Truth be told, she never meant to be a monster hunter either. Had never asked for a destiny or a fate, or whatever else people call it. She had been caught off guard by an overly large owl once in the woods, dripping with black blood and a screech that made her ears ring for hours after. A branch had broken off in her hands while she stumbled backwards and away from it, and when it had lunged for her, it was nothing but bad instincts that had her point at it with the stick and shout an incantation she had read in a stolen book once.

She never meant for it to  _implode_.

 

The popping sound it made still haunts her. Still makes her wake at night in a cold sweat, convinced she’s covered in feathers and blood that burns through her skin, with hollow and jagged bone shards stuck in her clothes and hair, screaming for help. She avoids anything with a similar sound now; balloons, bubblegum, fireworks. The noise makes her jump and tense, her hands reach for weapons and wood and anything that gives her security.

Her mentor tells her to count, when it happens.

It helps.

Numbers are grounding, they’re real, they’re solid, they’re  _constant_. One plus one equals two in her world and the Other world, even if the routes to get there are different.

 

When she completes her training, her mentor gifts her a wooden abacus. Small enough to fit in her pack, to fiddle with and settle her nerves on long journeys or distant assignments.

“It’s perfectly fine,” They assure her. “There’s nothing wrong with getting a little help where you can.”

 

 

Her first solo assignment is supposed to be simple. An incubus stirring up trouble in a nearby settlement that needs to be taken care of. He’s not difficult to find; Selene doesn’t find any sign that he’d even tried to cover his tracks. She discovers him in an emptied mansion, long abandoned and worn down by time. He’s lounging in between the posts of a rotted bed frame, making promises and vows laced with poisonous words that leave a rash on the backs of her hands as she moves towards him. Threats like arrows as they try to pierce through her armor, her own words turning them to nothing but steam with a quiet hiss.

When she gets him pinned to floor, secured in her trap of ash and salt, he screams. He screams and pleads and while his words no longer have the magic to wound her, they find her soft spots all the same. Her wand is pressed to the skin of his neck while the tips of his horns burn holes into the wooden floor beneath him; his magic fighting, struggling for release. Waiting for death.

A piece of wood in the lit fireplace crackles and pops and Selene thinks of black blood and wet feathers. Nightmares and broken bones and will this one pop or burn or just fall to the ground with a lifeless thud, golden eyes rolling back and into his skull while her wand shakes and glows and fills her with a power that only makes her feel cold inside.

 

 

She doesn’t think she actually wants to know.

 

  
“I don’t want to kill you,” She admits aloud. Quietly, and without power. The wand in her hand is thrumming, runes alive and excited for the gain they are expecting to make from his loss.

The incubus stills beneath her.

 

She thinks of her mentor, and how disappointed they will be in her. Dead on her first mission; the last five years wasted. She wonders if they will think she forgot her training. If perhaps she suddenly forgot that incubi remains have to be gathered and cleansed, that their stolen power has to be extracted before death or they will simply keep regenerating.

She wonders, briefly, if  _she_  will make a popping sound.

 

“…I believe you,” The incubus responds, his horns cooling as her arm flops back to her side. “And I don’t believe in doing things you don’t want to do.”

“I can’t leave you to terrorize people here.”

“Have any of the people I’ve _actually encountered_  called what I do terrorizing?” He shoots back.

Selene frowns, and considers. The reports hadn’t…actually come from the victims. Almost all were from husbands and partners that were upset with the state in which he had left their significant others.

All of whom had only experienced a day or two of lethargy before returning to full health.

 

She doesn’t really remember how they had gotten to her offering him asylum in her home. But when the pair arrives back in her modest cabin, she hears a tinkling of metal behind her as the incubus reveals a large cloth bag filled with gold and jewels.

“Consider us even,” The creature tells her as he hands it towards her.

 

Selene scrunches her face and turns away from the large bag of coin (at least triple what the town had offered for his extraction, but that is far from the point).

“I can’t accept bribes, it’s against the code. You can keep them,” She tells him as she opens her magic-resistant safe and pulls out a clean syringe and empty vial. “Now sit down please.”

 

The incubus winces as she sticks the needle through his bicep, pulling back on the syringe until it is filled with a vial of thick, dark blood.

“What is that for?” The incubus asks, as though perhaps  _she_  might be the one duping  _him_  in this situation.

“It’s for tracking,” Selene informs him plainly as she corks the vial and deposits it back into her safe. “If you’re going to stay here, you are my responsibility. If you escape, or try to run off, this will help me track you no matter which realm you try to go to. If I am going to sell the idea of keeping you alive to my mentor, I need to at least show them I am being responsible about it.”

 

…It’s not a smooth transition.

But Selene is lucky; her mentor understands. They do not berate her for her softness, and instead help to properly ward up her cabin and weapons and keep one eye on the monster in their pupils home.

 

It becomes something of a habit, after that.

 

Perhaps it is the Incubus’s influence, in more than one way, that leads her to it. Even if it is a lie when he says it, the simple knowledge of knowing there is someone out there who thinks she is right for making her choice, helps. And there are still some monsters in the world that cannot be saved; who are too far gone, or who are genuinely evil in harmful ways. Those who do not care for options or kindness, and only want their pound of flesh.

But they are not all like that, as she had been lead to believe.

 

The large, nine-eyed, three-tailed cat in the mountains that would destroy caravans and harass vendors on the trade route had only been starving and confused. A house cat now, practically. It had not meant to maim or injure, had only smelled the meat and milk being moved and acted accordingly. That is when Selene first buys the cooler, and strikes up the deal with the butcher. She buys the spoiled meats at a cheap price and feeds them to her monsters, who are in no danger from the developing bacteria. As her home becomes more and more filled, she finds herself more at ease in her own skin. Less prone to jumping at every noise, to clawing at her own arms, to daydreaming so deeply that she vacates her own body for hours at a time without meaning to.

 

She even gives them names.

The incubus becomes Des, the cat, Affection, the carnivorous rosebush in her backyard Sympathy. Even the gelatinous cube that likes to live in the sunspot on her counter and has greatly helped with her composting becomes Garas (And never fails to make Des giggle).

 

Her mentor is concerned about her kept company.

There is another job only a month after she acquires Garas; an old temple ruin in the local woods has recently become home to some sort of terror that has been sneaking through the village at night. Large enough to blot out the stars, leaving carts overturned and shops broken into and burgled.

Selene looks at the list of stolen items with interest, now more experienced in the ways of her work.

Books, toys, and the occasional piece of food.

Hardly the activity of something vicious, she thinks.

But she is loaded down with poisons and poems and her wand for the journey, all the same.

 

 

 

It is almost a scenic route, really. The sun is high in the sky, and the light it casts through the thick leaves overhead makes a rather beautiful pattern on the ground. She eases herself over an old rotted log, one hand on the trunk of a tree until she finds solid ground again.

And encounters a trail of wet, bloodied feathers on the ground.

 

The sight shakes her so viscerally she nearly turns back. Her breathing increases but her breaths are shallow and her vision blurs. A twig snaps beneath her boot and she jumps nearly four feet in the air at the noise, mind filling with panic, an echo of an owls screech in her ears, over and over and over again. Her skin burns and her stomach empties as the hand not holding back her hair scrambles through her pack until it settles on the smooth wooden surface of her abacus.

She counts aloud to drown out the false noises, moving the beads at a steady pace and timing her breaths in and out with the solid  _click_ s as they slide along the metal pole to make contact with one another.

She has gone all the way to the hundreds before she finally feels in control enough to continue.

 

The temple itself is damp from a recent storm, and she has to glide her steps through shallow pools of water to avoid making excessive noise as she moves through it. Her boots are soaked through by the time she finally finds the slumbering creature.

 

It is, indeed, very large.

 

There is a pool of dark sludge formed around it, melding with the water already soaked through the temple. She can’t seem to locate a face or head on the creature, though its weight shifts several times as she moves around it, trying to get a read on  _which_  monster this could be.

It doesn’t look like anything she’s ever read about or studied before.

 

When she finally lifts one of her feet from the water, hundreds of eyes open across the expanse of its body. Nearly simultaneous, and all turning to look at  _her_.

Three quarters of them close, as four long limbs stretch out from the mass and turns towards her. A neck forms, long and curving and then, ah,  _there’s_ the head.

She holds the wand in her fist tight to her thigh as the neck twists around her. Not near enough to touch, but six eyes inspect her warily before they seem to focus on her pack. The head nudges pointedly at the flap of it until it manages to wriggle in there, followed by a long tendril that rapidly retreats.

Her abacus in its grip.

 

“ _Hey_!” She calls, chasing after her possession as it is lifted above her head, the creature tilting around it curiously as it holds it up to the light.

She reaches out to grab it in an attempt to climb its limbs and get her abacus back, but recoils as her fist fills with feathers, instead. Black and inky and wet from the temple water. She looks at it again; it appears to be covered in scales, shining in the light breaking through the stone overhead, a smooth body stretching and shifting as it comes further and further into consciousness.

An illusion, maybe…?

But as she reaches out for it again, more cautiously this time, she finds feathers once more. Soft and plush in her grip, but churning and uneasy with her empty stomach.

She frowns, resisting the urge to retreat as she stares up at the only item she’s really attached to be tentatively bent by this oversized brute.

 

“That’s mine,” She says anyway, pushing away any wariness in her voice. Confidence, that’s the key. Be  _confident_. “You need to give it back.”

The creatures head tilts as it seems to consider her words.

“Please,” She says, lacing the word with just enough power to show that she is not here to bend to his whims, or make him some strange offering, or whatever he might think.

 

The creature glances between the abacus and Selene for a moment, before slowly lowering it back into her outstretched hand.

 

“Thank you,” She says, tucking it back into her pack. “Now, you need to leave.”

Six large blue eyes narrow as they move closer to her, its head slightly taller than her own body.

“The town you have been visiting is unhappy with your thefts. You need to return to your own realm, or I will have to kill you.”

 

There is a low, echoing rumble as the creature readjusts again, crossing two of its limbs on the steps of the rise it has been seated on. Resting its head on top, eyes closing as it gives another low, dismissive rumble.

 

Selene sighs and looks at the room around her. She’s not going to be able to drag it out of here with physical force alone, and she hadn’t prepared any levitation or movement stanzas for something  _this_ large. Villagers have a habit of over-exaggerating, and she had apparently misunderstood the truth in their words this time around.

Not her best moment of judgment, she’ll admit.

 

Behind it, in a corner on a stone pedestal, she can see a small pile of books and toys.

The missing items, she realizes.

She glances at the creature for a moment before moving towards them, instead.

 

One eye still on the creature, she opens up the top book. Many of the pages have been torn, or ripped haphazardly. Something talon shaped seems to have stabbed through several of the pages in the center as well.

 

She makes an overly dramatic sigh and licks her thumb as she turns the page as loudly as possible.

“It sure looks like  _someone_ ,” she drawls. “Was trying to read this, with little luck. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you?”

She sees the head shift slightly in its position, another low grumble echoing slightly.

 

“That’s too bad,” She continues, flipping another page. “I could have helped them with this, if they wanted…”

The head turns to face her again this time, eyes still narrowed and wary.

She wiggles her fingers harmlessly in the air where he can see them. “Phalanges are a heck of a thing. Tricky to shift though, if you’re not familiar with the anatomy.”

She waits a few more minutes, skimming over the contents of the book. Some old history stories from a land across the sea she hasn’t seen before. Outside of her range of work; probably not a land she’ll ever be able to see in her lifetime.

 

As she continues perusing, the shape in her peripheral vision begins to shrink. The large mass becomes more elven in shape, only slightly taller than her own form. With six blue eyes and six black wings sprouting from its back. The ends of its hands and feet are blurry though; as though they’re unsure what to do with them. Selene raises her hand again, fingers wriggling in the air as they inspect them more closely, their hands becoming more solid as they manage to copy some of her details.

 

“Very nice,” She compliments, taking her cloak off to help cover their expanse of exposed skin (and maybe hide their wings a little, too). She hands them back the book, and they take it from her, looking at it with a frown before looking up at her and repeating “Very nice?” in a more quizzical tone as they try to push it back towards her.

 

She blinks, taking it back from them.

_They don’t speak the language,_  she realizes all at once.

That’s…concerning. She’s never met or heard of a monster that didn’t at least understand the trade language before. Normally there is enough bleed through between their realms with the common root pieces of their language that conversations are still possible. It’s part of how the monsters manage to cross through in the first place.

This makes things a lot more complicated.

 

“You,” She tries, pointing at them before making a stabbing motion with her hand to try to get her meaning across. “killer?”

They look at her curiously for a moment before shaking their head slowly.

 

Ok, well. That’s something.

She can’t just leave them here though.

…well. Maybe Des could help with translations?

 

She closes the book and takes a few steps away, making a motion with her hand behind her. “Follow me.”

 

The creature tries to follow closely behind, but stumbles over its own feet as it tries to make it down the stairs. Selene manages to catch them before they can hurt themselves on the stone, but it’s a near thing.

“I’ve got you,” She mumbles, and hums a tune to meant help with balance for scaling large walls or moving through crowded cities. It helps him to stand, and his next few steps, while tenuous, are steady.

“I’ve got you,” He repeats with a nod.

Selene can feel her face flush slightly at the assertion before berating herself.

He gave himself extraordinarily handsome features, for someone that didn’t even  _have_  a face a few minutes ago.

 

She shakes her head to rid herself of the thought before she starts back towards her home. He links his hand with hers, refusing to release it and just repeating his last sentence like a mantra each time she turns to look at him, with more and more confidence.

…Probably he’s just afraid of falling again, she decides.

 

Hopefully, this will all be much simpler once she figures out how what sort of monster he actually is.


	14. Clan AU

“Ready?” Selene offers, bracing both feet firmly apart on the ground.

Alaris lets out a low grumble as he closes his eyes in agreement.

Selene takes a deep breath and  _pulls_ , one large, bloody blue scale off of his neck that hadn’t fully fallen off in the attack. Alaris lets out an agonized roar and Selene’s barrier shoots up in reflex to protect her from the flames.

“I know, I know. You big baby,” she jokes, patting his cheek as he settles down. He peers one large round eye open at her judgmentally and she relents.

“You’re right,” she sighs “It was a tough fight. You did wonderfully. Thank you, Alaris. Really. We’re lucky to have you as a keeper,” she soothes, pouring more healing into the worst of his wounds.

 

He purrs (and she’s still not used to hearing her cousin  _purr_  as a  _dragon_ ) in happiness as he settles back onto the ground, curling around himself and falling asleep.

 

“Will he be OK?” Aelynthi asks, coming around the corner.

Selene nods “Yeah, he’ll pull through. We should probably take some time to rest if we can, though.”

“Can we afford to?”

Selene shrugs “That’s up to the two of you, I think. He needs to rest right now no matter what you decide.”

Aelynthi sighs and rubs at the back of his neck. Selene smiles “Go. Serahlin should be all cleaned up by now. She’s probably waiting for you. Alaris will be fine while you go and live your life.”

 

Aelynthi hesitates, but it’s not long at all until he’s dashing towards his and Serahlin’s shared aravel.

 

Selene watches him go, and assembles the removed scales into a neat pile to take to Adannar; he should be able to craft some wonderful armor out of these for Victory. Or perhaps some stronger protection for the aravels instead?

Well. Whatever he decides, the scales will help, she’s pretty sure.

 

After placing them on top of his work table, carefully clearing out a few pieces of dawn stone, Selene washes the blood off of her hands at the temporary water pump Adannar set up when they first arrived.

She glances up as she shakes them off, the flap of cloth in the corner catching her eye when Adannar and Victory emerge, shirtless, from their aravel.

Adannar grins and waves to Selene, who just rolls her eyes at him as he approaches.

 

“Really?”

“Adrenaline is a surprisingly potent aphrodisiac,” Victory chuckles as he washes off his own hands.

Adannar lifts Selene up with a large hug and swings her around.

“Ok, Ok! Adannar, put me down!” she laughs.

“But we did it! We survived!” he cheers. “We didn’t even lose any people this time!”

“Yes, I know, I was there!” she squeals as he finally puts her feet back on the ground.

 

Victory smiles, pulling Adannar towards him with a hand cradling the back of his head as he presses his lips to his lovers forehead. To his credit, Adannar manages to not  _completely_  melt into it. But it’s a near miss.

 

Elanna enters the work space, returning from her hunt with a handful of fennecs hanging off of her shoulder. Casually, she plops them down onto Adannars work space, and starts to clean off her daggers on one of his loose rags.

 

“Aw, Ana, c'mon. You know I hate seeing the faces.”

“The skulls are useful though,” she pouts.

“Did you bring me any gifts, Ana? Hm?You’re my favorite you know~” Selene hums, draping herself over the huntress.

“Hey!” Adannar yells over Victory’s laugh.

“Don’t let Serahlin hear you say that, but yes,” Ana smiles, holding out a few bags of herbs and supplies from the forest.

Selene grins from ear to ear as she takes them, planting a kiss to her friends cheek “You’re my favorite Ana of all the Ana’s I’ve ever met.”

 

“Where  _is_  Serahlin?” Victory muses

“With Aelynthi, having their own post-battle down time.” Selene replies, looking through the bundles Ana gave her.

 

“I hear they’re trying to have a child,” Adannar adds.

“Really?  _Now_? While we’re at war with those tyrants?” Ana points out.

“It’ll be good for morale to have some little feet running around. We could use some children, I think. We’re overdue.” Selene laughs. “I think Alaris could use the extra pep, too.”

Ana hums thoughtfully, and nods in agreement.

 

Selene finishes browsing through the bags and glances up at Ana “Did you notice any Crystal Grace while you were out?”

“I think there were a few out near the pond, why?”

“I’ll need a few to help Alaris once he shifts back into an elf.”

“Let me go with you,” Ana sighs as she stands.

Selene just shakes her head “I’ll be fine, the pond isn’t far, and you just got back.”

“Are you sure?”

“'Mm-hm.” Selene says, already tying the bags onto her belt securely. “I’ll be back before you know I’m gone,” she sings before dashing off into the woods.

–

 

The pond truly isn’t far from where they’ve set up their camp. Only a fifteen minute hike, on a good day.

But there are still fallen branches and smoldering tree trunks littering the path, and it doesn’t take long for Selene to worry that she  _should_ have brought Ana along.

Thankfully, she manages to avoid any run-ins with whatever wild-life may still be wandering around looking for leftovers. Only scavenger birds can be heard overhead, and Selene can already see the light reflecting off of the pond.

She hums under her breath as she carefully takes what she needs from the Crystal Grace. An old habit to calm her nerves she never quite managed to kick.

Something lets out a quiet groan behind her and Selene jumps, accidentally tearing at the plant as she spins, her barrier shooting up around her.

 

But she doesn’t see anything. Not at first.

 

So she finishes taking her clippings and packs them up quickly. Then stands, taking in more of the area. Nothing too out of place. The water on the surface of the pond is calm, she doesn’t see much movement as she scans around the area. Until something seems to shimmer near the western edge of the water. Dark, and velvety. Selene swallows, wishes again that she had brought Ana with her, and summons flames to one hand as she carefully approaches the lump.

 

With her free hand, she carefully dispels the camouflage enchantment, and sees.

Well.

A lump.

 

A tall lump, wearing a cracked mask and wrapping itself tightly in a dark cloak. Slowly, Selene leans forward, curious as she places a hand on what should be its shoulder. It lets out a loud hiss and she quickly retracts her touch as the lump turns to face her. Or at least, it tries to, but mostly it just manages to half roll onto its side before the body gives up and returns to its previous position.

Selene frowns and reaches out for it again. It doesn’t react this time, but she can see its body expanding and retracting slowly with breath, so it’s probably still alive. When she gets to its back, her hand feels warm, and damp. As she pulls it away, she can see the red of its blood staining her hands. She tries to speak to it, ask it questions, but it doesn’t answer.

With a frustrated huff, she dispels the flames in her other hand and lifts the lump. It startles, but promptly seems to fall back to sleep as she carries it off in both arms back to camp as quickly as she can. She should have something there to help save its life.

–

 

She was right, at least. It’s easier to remove the cloak and subsequent armor underneath in the privacy of her aravel and get at the wound directly. Once the, apparently elven, person seems to be stabilized, Selene carries the cloak and armor to Adannar, in the hopes that he has something to help clean it.

 

“Sel, you’re back!” he greets, before a note of panic carries into his aura “Why are you covered in blood?”

“It’s not mine,” She assures him, plopping down the cloak and armor at his worktable.

 

He lets out a heavy sigh. “Y'know, I just got the fennec blood out of the wood…”

“Sorry. Do you have something I could use to clean these, then?”

“Yeah, definitely. Let me just…” he trails off as he gets a better look at the armor, his eyes darkening just a bit. “I’m going to get Victory.”

 

Selene blinks, but Victory appears with Adannar before she has much time to consider another option.

The taller man takes the armor in two hands, and Selene doesn’t think she’s ever seen him quite so angry outside of battle.

“Where did you find this?” he demands.

“The elf in my aravel was wearing-wait, where are you going?!” she calls, dashing after Victory who all but fade-steps to her aravel.

He immediately storms back out, almost running into Selene after glancing inside.

“Get my sword,” He yells to Adannar, who nods and runs off to find it, before Victory’s glare focuses on Selene “Where did you find him?”

“He was-he was just hiding, by the pond.”

“Why would you bring him here?! You could get us all killed!”

“He was injured, I couldn’t just leave him to die!”

“Yes,  _we_ injured him! In the hopes that he would, in fact, die!”

 

Selenes shoulders raise “Well that’s-! That’s just stupid!”

“You remember we are in a  _ **war**_ , right? That we have been under siege for nearly a century now, while our people are slaughtered by those monsters?!”

“How do you know he’s a monster, hm? How do you know he’s not just some unfortunate soldier, in over his head?!”

Victory’s hands flex at his sides, and Selene thinks for a brief moment he may actually try to strangle her before he lets out a long breath. His hands rake through his hair instead.

“Come with me.”

Selene drops her shoulders and follows him into her aravel.

Victory steps forward, fingers catching under the edges of the sleeping elves mask, before he lifts it up.

 

Six eyes.

He has  _six eyes_.

 

Ok. Right.

 

“He could…he could be someone else, we don’t necessarily-”

“He is the one of the sons of Mythal and Elgar'nan, and we need to kill him, Selene.”

“He could just be a shapeshifter-”

“He is a  **monster** , and a tyrant. Why are you making excuses? You’ve seen what he’s done, you’ve seen these people burn your home to the ground.”

Adannar bursts in then, carrying Victory’s sword. Selene feels her stomach drop as Victory claims it from him, pulling back to strike.

She knows he’s right. Dirthamen has been one of several of the monsters in the skies. And she knows it’s a lapse in good judgment on her part, to think of that dragon and this man separately. But as Victory raises his sword over his head and swings down to kill the sleeping elf in her bed, it feels natural to protect him. To project her barrier against her friend, her clan mate, and watch the sword fling off and back.

It feels less natural when his anger turns to  _her_.

 

“Victory, I-”

“Are you  _betraying_  us? Now? After everything, while Alaris is not even at full strength?” He accuses.

“No! No, I would never betray the clan!”

Victory gestures to Dirthamen, still sleeping and still within her barrier “What would you call this then?”

  
“It’s…” she struggles, because she doesn’t really have a good reason. Because she felt bad for him, abandoned and left to die alone in agony, maybe?

“He was injured. I’m a healer, Victory. I couldn’t just leave him like that.”

“You should not have brought him  _here_. You’ve put all of us in danger.”

“You’re right,” she admits. “I’ll own that mistake, and I am sorry for it. But I won’t apologize for helping someone who needed it.”

Victory huffs and glances at Adannar, looking for someone to back him up. But Adannar just raises his hands in surrender and shakes his head.

 

With a heavy sigh, Victory levels a finger at Selene “The second he is back on his feet, you will get rid of him. Anyone here that he injures, or harms, or kills? That blood will be on  _your_  hands, Selene. Remember that.”

She nods, keeping the barrier up until both Victory and Adannar have left her aravel. And then collapses onto the foot of the bed.

 

A groan comes from the elf- _Dirthamen_ , she supposes, and Selene shoots back up straight.

“Where…Who are you?” He mumbles, as all six eyes seem to rest on her.

Selene swallows.

“I…I’m Selene. I..captured you. You’re going to be staying here for a while as my…”

Prisoner? Captive?

“…You’ll be staying here until you heal,” she settles on. “I’m going to ask that you not leave this room, though. Things will turn very bad, very quickly if you do.”

 

He nods, and attempts to sit up before she pushes him back down “If you try to move too much, you could reopen your wounds.”

He blinks up at her from his now reclined position and glances around a few moments before he speaks again.

“…May I please have some water?”

Selene quickly takes a cup and scoops a portion of water out of an unused cleaning bucket for him.

She sighs as she watches him finish it, and then nod back off quickly.

Right, she thinks.

Now what?


	15. Knight AU

It is a great honor to be a knight in the court of an Evanuris.

 

Years of training and dedication, punishment, flagellation, and recreation. Several centuries of tests to prove your loyalty, skills, and commitment to the people.

Unless, of course, you cheat your way in.

 

Not that it was technically cheating. She had won the tournament fair and square, after all.

Whether or not the  _tournament_  was fair, was not her concern. She’s not the one it was set up to favor, and she knows it. She knew it when they had hesitated before declaring her the winner of the final match.

She knows it now that she has been relegated to the least used court. The Court of Dirthamen, of secrets and knowledge, where debates are more likely to be settled with words than swords or hushed away behind closed doors before blood is ever spilled.

The court of the only Evanuris not to bother even attending the tournament.

 

She imagines she was quite the shock, when they told him of her new station. _‘Surprise, the wrong elf won and we’re sticking her with you since you weren’t there to say no! Have fun!’_

Or…something like that, probably. Selene’s not really sure how the Evanuris actually address each other in situations like these. But going through the various possibilities in her head helps kill some of her down time. Of which she has a  _lot._

The first day or two had been busy, of course. Being shown to her quarters, having her markings changed, being sized for her armor and mask and testing her combative skills.

But after that…

There really isn’t much of a need for knights, that she’s found. His most dangerous areas aren’t populated, and he has more than enough guards stationed to them. The labyrinths have their own team, so she doesn’t get to play with anything there, and his people actually seem pretty self sufficient.

And while of course it’s not a  _bad_  thing that there’s not much call for Knights in his lands, it leaves her with more time on her hands than she knows what to do with.

She spends a lot of it around his workshops, instead.

She makes a few friends, learns a few faces who show her around. Makes friends with a few of the other knights, and learns how to navigate the castle.

It is not until her first trip to Arlathan that he finally sees her, though.

 

The journey is not too long, most of the travel taking place through the crossroads, she and a few other knights trailing along behind him in case they are needed, all in full armor and helmets designed to mimic his own mask.

It is surprisingly difficult to breathe in, she thinks.

 

The city itself is beautiful. Her first time here, and one of the reasons she wished to become a knight in the first place. Her only hope of escaping her parents own decisions about her future.   
A Knight is too high a station to be bonded unwillingly, after all.

 

It is during their journey to his mothers temple within the city that she sees them. A young man and an older woman dragging him off into the alley.

At least the mask does not hinder her sight, she praises.

 

With a quick nod to the elf beside her, Selene breaks off from the formation and heads towards the alley as swiftly as she is able. She could walk more silently, she supposes, but she likes the clanking. Likes the authority it gives her as others part before her in a rush to not be in her path.

It is a refreshing change of pace.

 

It doesn’t take her long to find their trail, the young mans aura has practically left breadcrumbs of anxiety and fear for her to follow before she finds him pressed against a wall with the womans hand down his pants.

She knows the look in the young mans eyes too well. He is  _not_ enjoying whatever she is trying to do.

 

“Halt,” she calls, one hand falling to the hilt of the sword on her hip “Release him.”

 

The womans head turns, chin and nose upturned in a sneer until she notices the armor. The symbols on her plates, the enchantments on her armor, and the badge of twin ravens on her chest.

 

“O-Oh. My Dame, I did not realize-”

 

“Did not realize that your advances were unwanted?” Selene interrupts.

 

The woman swallows, and releases the young man, standing straight with her head down.

 

Selenes fingers tap lightly down the hilt of her sword as she debates her options. She could challenge the woman, she supposes, but she needs to get back to her post before the reach their destination, and she’ll need to find a shortcut to meet back up as it is. She could behead her, but she’ll have to pay reparations to Andruil for taking one of hers without permission, and she has been in a notable  _mood_ lately, according to the grapevine.

“Leave,” Selene finally settles on “If you try to pull something like this again, I will know, and I will not be in so kind a mood the next time we cross. Do you understand?”

 

The woman nods, giving Selene a customary bow before running off and rejoining the main crowds.

 

Selene shakes her head and approaches the young man carefully “Are you alright?” she asks.

  
He nods, slowly.

 

“Do you need help getting home?”

 

He swallows, glancing in the direction the woman had gone and hesitates before looking back at Selene.

 

“It’s alright,” She assures him “I’m here to help. I can escort you, if you’d like.”

 

He swallows again, and nods, slowly pulling himself off of the wall.

Selene gestures for him to lead the way, and walks beside him through the main part of the city and into the slums, where the walls start to grey.

 

“You’re not supposed to be in this part,” he mumbles, finally speaking up.

“Would you be more comfortable if I left?”

He shakes his head “No. No, I-I just…Knights don’t usually come here. They don’t usually…do what you did. Interfere.”

“Well, I wasn’t always a Knight,” she offers.

“But you are now,” he counters “And now that’s what you are all the time. Doesn’t matter what you were before.”

Selene contemplates his words as they continue through the alleys. Truthfully, the fact that her past no longer mattered is a large part of what appealed to her about the position. But she’s still  _her_. Still Selene.

She pauses, and removes her helmet, long white hair falling over her shoulders as she gives the man a small smile. “I am a Knight,” she acknowledges  “But I am still an elf, still a member of the people. And one of my oaths as a Knight is to protect the People, as well as my Lord. We are supposed to fight for the welfare and well being of all, and uphold the values of those we serve.”

 

“And you think your lord values people like me?” he scoffs.

  
“I do not know,” she admits “But I do not think he would be a true leader if he did not. All people matter. I would like to believe he is wise enough to know this.”

 

The man swallows, and points to a stone grey door “Thank you for the escort,” he says with a bow.

 

Selene smiles and nods her head to him “It was my honor.”

 

She watches him go inside, and ensures no one follows before setting off to find the others. Hopefully she will not be too late to rejoin them.

 

“You have strayed farther than we thought you would,” caws a bird from atop one of the buildings. Selene blinks as she looks up at it.

A raven.

One of Dirthamens, she assumes.

 

“There was someone in need of help,” she informs them.  
“And now  _you_  are in need of help,” they counter. “You are lost.”

 

Selene raises an eyebrow. “I am not, in fact. But if you know a shortcut to where we are headed, I would not complain, either.”

 

The bird seems to contemplate her for a moment before swooping down to land beside her shoulder. It stares at her, head tilting before tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

“You should wear the helmet less around the palace grounds,” They comment before darting back into the sky.

Selene grins, and tucks her hair back into her helmet as she follows them. “I’ll think about it.”


	16. Mystery World AU

It’s the wings that are the weirdest part, Selene decides, after a few minutes.  Big black wings, stretched out over the cracked earth in messy disarray, reminding her of the first time she saw a dead crow by the side of the road.  Only they’re  _massive_ , and attached to a man who, on closer inspection, actually looks like he’s got more bird-ish parts than just the wings going on.

 

He’s skinny and probably kind of tall, and unconscious, obviously, with short black feathers where his hair should be, and wide, raptor-like feet.  He has dark talons where anyone else would have nails, and the skin on both his feet and his hands looks hard and wrinkled, and scaled like a bird’s. Otherwise, he’s got a more-or-less normal sort of look to him.  Apart from a big bleeding gash on his head, and the fact that he’s dressed kind of like he just walked off the set of some high fantasy porno. Wearing just scraps of black and grey cloth, with a little skirt rumpled around his waist and some dented silver bangles gleaming in the sunlight.

There’s a sword a few steps away, too.  Unlike the rest of the bizarre winged man, it’s bright and very shiny. She can see a rather disturbing splash of red across the blade.

She stares at him for a full minute.  Then she looks up, because hey, he’s got wings – so ‘up’ is a logical contender for where he came from.  But there’s nothing overhead except for clear blue sky, and a relentless sun, and a few lazy-looking clouds meandering overhead.  No shadows, no birds, not even a hint of movement.  She’s alone with the weird winged stranger, and the barest hint of manmade structures gleaming in the distance.

And no idea what to do, of course.  

That head wound her new acquaintance has got is bleeding an awful lot, too.

Cautiously, she edges a little closer, and nudges him with a toe.  It’s only slightly less auspicious than poking him with a stick would be, and it could be a bad idea for any number of reasons.  But she can’t think of anything else to do.  So when he doesn’t respond, she nudges again, and then clears her throat a little.

“Hey,” she tries. “Hey… friend.  You’re not dead, at least. I can see you breathing…”

One of his wings twitches, and she almost jumps out of her skin.  But his eyes don’t open, and he doesn’t make a sound.  Not even when she raises her voice, and then works up enough courage to sort of shake his shoulder.  It feels boney and tough underneath her palm, and he has bruises in a lot of places.

She knows how to help with bruises. When she actually has access to things. But it’s been two hours since she fell through the mirror in her bathroom, and a little over half that time since she decided that waiting out her obvious hallucinations wasn’t going to work, and in that span of time she hasn’t done much except wander towards the one dull speck of  _something_  she could see on the horizon.

Something which turned out to be  _this._

“Dammit,” she says with feeling, glancing up towards the horizon again.  She can’t even hallucinate anything convenient for herself. No.  It had to be a weird half-dead bird man in the middle of the desert.  _That’s_  where her mind has decided to seek refuge.  The worst part is, really, that she can’t quite bring herself to just turn around and leave him.  No. Because maybe it’s not completely a hallucination.  Maybe she thinks she’s seeing an unconscious bird man in the middle of some strange desert, and what’s really going on is that some poor homeless man’s been hit by a drunk driver and is lying on the curb outside her apartment building, and it’s three o’clock in the morning or something and she’s the only person around to find him.  Just his bad luck that she lost all of her senses at some point when she got up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night.

She can’t exactly call for emergency services, though.  Her phone is somewhere back in the real world. She’s not sure if she should move him, either.  It isn’t like she can take actual stock of his injuries; there’s no first-aid course for injured bird men, or at least none that she’s taken, and no way to know what’s real or imaginary about it besides.  He could actually be an injured crow, for all she knows.  He could be  _nothing_.

She reaches over and, with care, starts to lift him off the ground.  He’s not as heavy as she expected.  Well, he’s  _heavy_ , but his wings are big enough and he’s tall enough that she would have expected him to weigh more than she could carry.  But she discovers she can shift him, and then she almost drops him back down when his wings sort of fold together a little bit.  Seemingly by their own reflex, since he doesn’t even blink or groan. The muscles along the joints of the massive limbs twitch a little, and when her palm accidentally brushes against some of the feathers on his back, they feel dry and soft.

Biting back her discomfort and the alarm that’s blaring  _weird, weird, weird_  into her head, she manages to get one of Bird Man’s arms over her shoulder.  One of his wings goes with it, too, filling up her peripheral vision with a sudden wall of black.  The wings don’t make him any easier to carry, though. Too bulky.  She feels – oddly – like she might break his arm if she puts too much pressure on it. Like maybe it’s already been damaged, although she doesn’t see the obvious signs of fracture or dislocation. His left wing trails across the ground, twitching a bit, and she almost drops him twice before she manages to get him settled into a better position.  This time, resting fully against her back, with both of his arms over her shoulders, and her own arms slung beneath his legs.

She ends up carrying him along like that. Slumped over her as if he’s the world’s weirdest, most awkward backpack. Staggering beneath the weight.

It’s  _much_  worse than trekking along under the sun by herself.

For one thing, he’s dripping blood onto her.  It occurs to her that she should probably try to staunch that, but short of taking a strip off of her t-shirt, she’s got nothing to do it with.  Maybe it’s easy for people on television to just rip their shirts to pieces in neat little lines, but she’s pretty sure that if she tried it, she’d just mangle it, and she does  _not_ want to try and continue this trek topless.  Bird Man himself doesn’t have much fabric to spare.  For another thing, he’s heavy, and hot, and  _weird, weird, weird,_  of course, and, oh yeah, he smells like death.  It’s such a powerful scent that it sort of hovers at the back of her tongue, so that she somehow manages to smell it even when she’s breathing through her mouth. She would have assumed he was dead if not for his pulse, and breathing. Although maybe, back in the real world, he actually  _is_  a corpse.

“When was the last time you showered?” she mutters to herself.  Then she decides that talking just makes it worse, so she focuses on the task at hand for a while.

They’ve gone a depressingly short distance by the time she has to stop and take a break.  She lets Bird Man slump to the ground as gently as she can, trying to be careful with his wings because – well, because they’re  _wings_  – and glances back towards the tracks they’ve been making in the dust.  

Yup.  

That wasn’t very far at all, she decides, and what she really wants is some shade to sit in and something cool to drink and for the world to stop being so weird now, please and thanks. At least until she can catch her breath again.

Bird Man’s head is still bleeding.  Her shoulder is sticky with the runoff, drying and itchy, definitely unhygienic, and she doesn’t know how long he was bleeding for before she found him. A while, presumably.

Noticing that makes her look at her blood-soaked sleeve, and she’s struck by a sudden moment of inspiration. With a quick glance to confirm that Bird Man’s still out for the count, she weighs the potential consequences of insanity-induced partial nudity against her possible prize, decides ‘screw it’, and quickly yanks her t-shirt over her head.  She has to put it on the ground and stand on it a bit to get enough leverage, wrapping the sleeve around her hand a few times for good measure, but then she  _yanks,_ and to her satisfaction, the sleeve rips off along the seams.  Just like she’d hoped. Cheap stitching finally having an upside.

Maybe it’s just the fact that something has actually gone right for a change of pace, but the victory makes her strangely giddy.

She tears off the other sleeve, too, partly for balance and partly just-in-case.  Prizes in hand, she puts her newly-mangled shirt back on. It’s actually not too hard to make one of the sleeves into a sort of bandage.  The material’s stretchy – though sweatier than she’d like – and already wrapped into a circle.  Her patient has just enough spare fabric in the form of a decorative sash around his wrist that she can use it as a barrier between his skin and her not-exactly-sanitary garment. She unties the sash, presses it into place, and then bends down and reaches around Bird Man’s head to try and pull the sleeve over it.  The feathers on his scalp are short and spiky, but it’s easy enough to press them flat, and it doesn’t seem to hurt them. She rolls the fabric of her sleeve a little, so it’s thick against the wound.  It doesn’t quite cover it completely.

After some internal consideration, she repeats the process with the second sleeve, and manages to get his head completely covered.

The blood stops trickling down his face.

“There we go, stranger,” she says.

Bird Man, of course, says nothing.  But he’s still breathing, and the tiny victory is a bolstering experience.  She decides she’s caught enough of her breath and hauls him back into position again.  It’s such a trial to maneuver him that she decides she should try and keep going for as long as she can, pointedly not thinking about whether they’re headed in the right direction – or any direction.  It takes more energy to put him down and pick him back up again than to just push on, and hey, at least he’s sort of keeping the sun off of her back. That counts for something, even if his dark feathers soak up the desert sun like it they’re thirsty for it.

“You are  _heavy_ ,” she tells him, when she has the breath to talk. “I mean, I guess you could stand to be way heavier, considering how big your…  _wings_ , are.  But still. This is ridiculous.  Anyone else falls through a mirror and meets a scantily-clad flying man, and they’d probably go on some kind of fantastical adventure or something.  But of course,  _I_ have to find the unconscious one with head trauma.  Yeah, that sounds like my luck.”

The complaining helps, too.

When she stops again, her legs feel like a pair of elastic bands that someone’s pulled too tightly, and there’s sweat itching a track down her temples and across her face, and sand keeps blowing up her shorts.  She has a (hopefully overblown) suspicion that the bottoms of her slippers are  _melting_ , but she’s afraid to look and confirm it.  It was lucky enough that the floor in her apartment gets so cold that she actually decided to wear them. Doing this barefoot would probably kill her, especially considering that her magic doesn’t seem to work here. The ground is frighteningly hot, and she feels a pang of guilt as she puts Bird Man down.  But there’s no place else to put him, and she  _needs_  to catch her breath.  Not that it helps much.  The air is dry and gritty.  It scrapes down her throat as she gulps it in.

On the bright side, when she looks back she finds that she can’t really see their starting point anymore, and the shapes in the distance look closer and much more distinct. She can make out the shadows between buildings, and the vague outline of a low wall if she squints.  Though some nagging memory in the back of her mind warns her that it could be a mirage, and the real buildings could be much, much further away.  Or even in the opposite direction, or something.  She ignores that voice.  She can’t really do anything about it if it’s a mirage; it’s still her best guess, and besides, the whole thing’s probably a hallucination anyway.  Mirages on top of hallucinations just seems too vindictive to account for.

After a few minutes, Bird Man’s wings give a sort of haphazard flap against the ground.  She’s too tired to jump at the movement; it’s startling, and she’s sure it would have garnered a reaction under any other circumstances, but as it stands she can only manage to look warily at the stranger. He doesn’t wake up.  Doesn’t even moan or flutter his eyelids.  So in the end she just takes it as her cue to keep him from roasting on the ground, and with some considerable effort, starts dragging him along again.

The smell, she decides, is probably never coming out of her clothes.  Or hair.  It’s not improving any, either, not even to the point where she can just plain ignore it yet.

“You smell  _really_  terrible,” she informs her burden again, for good measure.

There’s no response.

She keeps up her muttering, anyway. At least until she hears a strange sound in the distance, and spots a weird shadow – just between herself and the horizon – moving steadily closer.  

It’s a big shadow. Almost car-sized, she would think, but it’s definitely not a car.  There’s no shine to it in the sunlight, no roar of an engine, and it’s got legs where the wheels are supposed to be, even if it’s kind of flat and wide and low to the ground.  Also, there’s someone sitting on it.  Which isn’t unheard of with cars, of course, but it’s less common than having someone sit  _in_  it. An elephant? But it’s… not the right shape.

As it draws closer, she comes to the conclusion that it is, in fact, an enormous lizard.  Or… no, it’s actually more like the giant lovechild of a dragon and a shark.  Reins trail up from a wide, flat grey head, its stumpy legs claw at the dust as they rise and fall.  It’s got bulging black eyes, and a long tail that swishes away its tracks as it walks.

There’s a man in a dress riding it side-saddle.

“Okay,” She mumbles to herself.  “So.  Relief at finding a conscious person versus trauma at seeing  _that_.  Round one.  And… fight!”

Somewhat surprisingly, relief wins.  It’s a near thing, but it edges out its victory when the man in the dress raises his hand, and calls something out in a friendly-sounding voice.  She doesn’t actually catch what he’s saying, but she takes the opportunity to slow down and breathe a little as he moves towards her. She keeps her eyes mostly on the gigantic lizard.  It’s not really a conscious decision or anything, it’s just… well,  _lizard_.  Where else is she going to look? The thing’s mouth is twice the size of her head.

“Hey!” she manages to call, once she’s a little closer.

The man raises his hand again, and calls back – this time she makes out the general sounds, but it’s nothing she understands.  The lizard he’s riding draws in huge, heaving breaths that she can hear now, and its footsteps send a few little tremors through the ground.  They make the hairs stand up on the back of her neck, and she thinks that maybe, on another day, she’d been running in the opposite direction. Probably screaming her head off. But the look in the lizard’s blank eyes is more ‘dopey cow’ than ‘vicious predator’, and it hasn’t eaten the noisy guy on its back.  

Good enough signs, under the circumstances.

Up close, a few weird things become apparent about the rider, too.  He’s average size, it looks like, and sitting cross-legged on the back of his mount, with his shoulders just slightly stooped in the heavy sunlight.  His hair is dark, and despite the beating sunlight, the top of his dress seems to be made more from a few artfully placed straps than anything. Underneath the billowing fabric (which consists of a dark purple skirt and a  _golden sash_  to go with it) he looks pretty fit.  An unusual set of traits, but, not really that inexplicable in and of themselves. No. The real weird factor comes in gradual doses. His skin, rather than simply being some shade of brown, seems to have some oddly purple hues to it. And there are a pair of horns curling up from his head – she can almost convince herself the man is vashothi, but everything else about him is wrong for that. His hands, gripping the reins of his mount, seem to end in sharp, dark,  _long_  nails. And something that seems perilously like a  _tail_  is swishing around the seat behind him.

He says something she can’t parse the meaning of, when he and his lizard are only a few feet away. She stops, and despite some lingering doubts, takes the opportunity to put Bird Man down again.  The rider watches her for a moment, and then slips out of his saddle, in turn.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “But whatever language you’re speaking, I don’t know it.”

Purple Man makes a sound of understanding, and for a moment, she’s hopeful that he’ll switch over to Common.  Even if he looks like something that walked out of a sci-fi television special.  Maybe this is all just a movie set? But – to her consternation – he reaches into his pocket instead, and then tosses something at her.

She fumbles, and  _almost_  drops it.  Purple Man peers down at Bird Man, while Selene looks at whatever she’s caught. It’s a red stone.  Not like a gemstone, but not like something that’s been painted, either.  There’s a circle carved into one side of it, and a star on the other.  The surface is polished and smooth, and it feels weirdly cold and weirdly  _electric_  against her palm.  Like magic, almost.

Purple Man ‘hmms’ to himself, and glances back towards her.

“A traveller carrying a Mage Leader like a sack of laundry,” he says.  “You don’t see that every day.”

  
She blinks.

This is the first person – the first  _coherent_ person – she’s been able to speak to since all of this madness began, she realizes.  She should grab this opportunity by the horns – the figurative ones, not… his – and ask something important.  Something that will give her a better idea of what’s going on, and why, and if she’s lost her mind, and whether or not she can actually fix it and go back to normal.  There are so many questions, in fact, that she can’t even think of a good one to start with.

“What?” she asks instead.

The rider raises one hand.  “Oh, don’t worry,” he assures her.  “You’re in neutral territory, so neither of you will die.  Provided he can pull through, of course.  What happened to his head?”

She reflexively follows the line of his gaze back down towards Bird Man.  The sentence about territory was nonsense, but also ominous, and the lizard’s blank stare is starting to really unnerve her.

“I don’t know.  He was like this when I found him,” she replies.

“You found him?”  Purple Man nods to himself, and then leans down to start lifting Bird Man up again.  She bends over and helps with his wings, without really thinking about it too much.  “Well, that explains it then!  Where was he?”

She turns and points back the way they came.

“Out there, in the desert.”

The Purple Man makes a ‘hmm’ sound again, and then neither of them do much talking as they’re too busy trying to get Bird Man up on the back of the giant lizard.  Which, fortunately, doesn’t make any sudden movements or anything.  The creature is starting to unnerve her a lot anyway. Just by standing there, existing. Maybe that’s because, out of everything that’s happened so far, a dragon-shark-horse seems the least like it could have just come out of her own subconscious.

Purple Man gets Bird Man more or less settled into the saddle.  Black wings jut out awkwardly into the open air. Selene pants, and wants desperately to sag against the side of the lizard. But doesn’t try it, all things considered.

“I don’t suppose you know how to ride?” Purple Man asks.

She takes a step back for good measure.

“Uh, no,” she says.

“Well, that’s rough,” he replies.  “There’s no way all three of us are fitting, even if we get particularly cozy.  I guess you’ll have to walk alongside.”

She feels like she’s just lost a fight inside of an oven.  Her feet hurt, her muscles have gone past protesting and are at the point of full-on rebellion, there’s grit in every conceivable place it could lodge itself, and she’s pretty sure her face is the most sunburnt it’s ever been in her life, too.  But she’s still kind of relieved that she doesn’t have to climb onto the giant dead-eyed horse-lizard.

She raises a hand in agreement.  “Hey, look,” she says.  “As far as I’m concerned, the fact that I don’t have carry another person around anymore is fair enough.  You’re my hero right now.”

Purple Man chuckles, and hauls himself back up into his saddle.  There’s a pouch to one side.  He grabs it, reaching down and tossing it to her – just like the stone – before he straightens up, and takes the reins.

She examines the pouch, and to her infinite relief, finds that it’s filled with water.  She takes it on faith, just like everything else up to this point, and gulps some down.  

“I’ll remember you said that. My name is Des, by the way,” Purple Man introduces.  Uncommon name, but it’s definitely eclipsed by far weirder things.

“Selene,” She replies, once she can tear herself away from the sweet, soothing relief of the water long enough.  Des extends his hand back towards her, and she reluctantly parts with it again. “Thanks.”

He shrugs.  “No problem.  There are worse places to get lost in the empire, but there are better ones, too.”

“The empire? Empire of what?” she asks. Not the Imperium, she’s pretty sure. No place in Tevinter looks like  _this._

Des’ amused and possibly flirtatious look gives way to something more shrewd, and assessing.

“Where are you from?” he asks, instead of answering.

It’s reflexive snark, more than anything, that has her reply flying out of her mouth before she knows what to do with it.  “Thedas,” she says.

Des’ eyes go wide, and he sucks in a long, sharp breath.  It gives her a view of his very-pointy, very inhuman teeth.  Which are actually pretty unsettling, she decides. If she wasn’t currently overcome with gratitude for his existence, she might even be a little frightened by them.

“ _Seriously_?” he asks.  And, well,  _he’s_  the guy with the purple skin and the unexpected cranial accessories who happens to be riding a humungous lizard across a barren wasteland.  With a man who has wings shooting out of his back strapped to his saddle.  So she doesn’t think he’s earned the right to any incredulity at this point, all friendliness and welcome mouthfuls of water aside.

“I don’t suppose you could tell me what’s going on?” she asks, finally at the end of her rope.

Des sucks in another breath, and makes a clicking noise at the back of his throat.  He hauls on the reins, and she moves back a little more as the lizard starts to turn around.  “Well this should be interesting,” he mutters to himself.  His lizard lumbers forward.  He motions at her to follow alongside, and, with a growing mixture of cold dread and niggling optimism, she does.

“How much do you know?” he asks.

She blinks.  “About what?  About  _this?”_  she replies, raising her hands to try and encompass the sprawling deathscape of sun-bleached hell around them.  The red stone almost slips out of her palm, nearly forgotten, and she catches herself and redoubles her grip on it.  “I don’t know a single thing about any of this this.  I don’t know what  _this_ is,” she raises the stone demonstratively, “I don’t know where I am, I don’t know  _what_ you are, or what  _that_  is,” she points at the lizard this time. “In fact I’m pretty sure I must be hallucinating half of this stuff.  That man doesn’t actually have  _wings_ , right?”  Her gestures finally come to rest on Bird Man, who is wobbling slightly in the saddle, but doesn’t look to be in any danger of coming loose.

“Shit,” Des curses.

That wasn’t what she was expecting.

“Huh?”

“Yes, he has wings,” Des settles on replying, which at least makes sense in context.

“…Oh,” she manages, suddenly at a loss.  “I don’t know if that’s good news or bad news.”

Either her unconscious mind has a lot more complexity than she’s ever given it credit for, or she’s actually fallen into some kind of parallel dimension.

“Did I fall into some kind of parallel dimension?” she asks, a little faintly.

Des looks at her for a moment, and then nods.

“Pretty much,” he confirms. “Welcome to the Great Empire of Elvhenan, last true refuge from the Blight – which, y’know, destroyed Thedas a thousand years ago. Except not, apparently, if  _you_  came from there.”

Selene blinks, and then takes another look around the desert. And the distant outline of some kind of town or city or village. Nothing about this place looks even remotely like the stories that fill her head at the mention of ‘Elvhenan’. It doesn’t even look like a  _cynical_  take on the concept.

“…Elvhenan’s a fairytale,” she says.

Des chuckles sardonically.

“Yeah, well. So are you,” he replies, and then his lizard begins to move. “Keep up. Oh, and uh – word advice. Do  _not_  tell anyone else what you just told me. Especially not your new friend.”

Despite the heat, something in the tone of his voice makes Selene shiver.

She hesitates, for a moment. Watching the lizard, and the purple, horned stranger, and the still-unconscious winged figure resting on the saddle behind him. Feathers ruffling, slightly, as a low wind kicks up.

But in the end, all she can really do is follow after them.


	17. Fantheon AU

In the beginning, there was nothing. Nothing, and no one, until there was change. A burning desire to  _be_  something, a universe begging to exist.

And then it did.

Darkness came first, a thick blanket over everything that wasn’t yet. Providing the shelter for things it didn’t understand from threats it had never before encountered and could only barely conceive of.

Until the Wolf came.

 

The Wolf barreled through the darkness, a blinding light clutched tight in its jaws. The Dark recoiled from the light, new and overwhelming and so much louder than anything it knew. In a panic, it reached for the Wolf, attempting to douse the light it clutched so tightly.

The Wolf snarled, protecting the orb from the Darkness’s grasp as it began to run, farther and farther from the Darkness.

As the Wolfs jaws tightened, pieces began to fall away, leaving trails of light in its wake. Small pieces blinking through the Darkness while it is distracted and weakened by the chase. 

A larger chunk falls away, phasing through the sky as the chase goes on. Alone now with her sister, the Moon blinks back at the Stars and upon the Darkness left around them. They gather pieces of themselves, playing as children do until the puzzle clicks together and another is born.

Life comes then, and with her, a home for those like her.

Her creation shocks the Darkness and the Wolf from their chase, curiosity and apprehension drawing them back to their origins.

The earth is cold, and the plants remain within the warmth of the soil, unwilling to expose themselves to the cold. The Wolf looks upon them, the potential for life and growth clearly shining in its eyes. Carefully, its jaw unhinges, as it places the sun in the sky.

The earth warms, as water recedes and flora and fauna begin to crawl over the surface. Life smiles down at their creation, as the people begin to grow and prosper. Invention is born, as the people create shelter and tools. Close behind is Love, born in the smiles of parents to their babes and the peoples bonds to each other, those bold and timid in actions alike.

Life continues to prosper, and the Wolf and the Darkness become Day and Night, while the earth continues to grow. Overpopulation abounds, and action must be taken lest they all lose what they have worked to create.

And so Death is born. She steps out of the night, accented in white as she assists those too weary to continue in Lifes domain to a final rest through the Stars hidden paths.

Balance is discovered, as each of their domains work in tandem with the others to provide what is necessary to keep their shared Earth cared for.

Which is of course, where the story will begin.

* * *

That is the story of myth and legend and the start of the world, of course.

There is another.

A tale of broken worlds and broken times, lost spirits and a wolf carrying not the sun, but the last, hollowed remnant of a thousand dead worlds. Lost to flames and chaos and a darkness quite unlike the one between the stars.

But which is more true, not even the gods themselves can rightly say.

“I am not a god,” says the Wolf.

Mana’Din glances at Pride, and reaches over, straightening the shining white fur mantle on his shoulders. They are dressed to match, today. Both in armour, he in his wolf pelt, and her in her mask. The festivities have not even begun, and yet, he already looks somewhat tired. The price of a night festival; the sun is setting, and though he spent the day in her arms, he looks as though he would rather go back inside and find a good book, or make conversation with Curiosity, than attend the opening ceremonies.

“What is a god?” she wonders, as he turns towards her, and returns the favour. Straightening the top of her cloak, and then linking his arm through hers. The chamber is quiet. Desert warmth blowing in through the window’s, the last the day has to offer, as the wind carries the sweet scents of nightflowers preparing for their chance to bloom.

“Something beyond us, if it exists at all,” Pride tells her, with that concerned look on his face. “I never like being worshipped.”

“I know. I am not fond of it, either,” she reminds him. “But words only mean what people want them to. If people say  _gods_  and they mean us, that does not change what we are. And I doubt it bothers any being vast enough to qualify for godhood by  _your_  standards. It would be petty of them to take offence.”

Pride smiles, despite himself, and shakes his head.

“I still do not have to like it.”

The sun is stubborn, say the myths. Sometimes relentless, burning hot enough to wreak chaos and havoc, and earn the regard of Death Herself. The sun takes all burdens, and sees all sins, and loves the world so fiercely that Darkness must, at times, drag him away from it. If only to keep him from igniting it all with his fervency. 

She has always seen him through gentler eyes. But then, he was also the first to see her and call her Mercy, call her the End of Suffering, and Peace.

Such poems, he wrote for her.

“When this festival is done,” she says. “I will stay awhile, if you would have me. I have missed hearing your protestations.”

Pride looks at her, and his gaze softens.

“Of course I would have that,” he says. “I have missed you as well, more than i should say. No one else will tell me off as you do.”

Her own duties often keep her travelling. To temples scattered through the provinces, and shrines, and places where Death’s help is needed, to seal the doorways that have opened themselves to the darkness that is not Darkness. The place of Nothing, that would steal spirits and the souls of the dead, to places beyond even the sight of the Stars. The Guide has been busy, sending Death to the doorways she can find, in these past few years.

Something is happening. 

They are all aware of it, but… what it is, that is harder to say. Something is coming.

Mana’Din holds Pride more firmly, as they make their way outside, and past the honour guard of the Day Palace. Outside, the sun is setting, and the desert city of Arlathan shifts in hues as the first low notes of music begin to come from the ceremonial orchestra. The streets are packed with onlookers. A cheer goes up, as one of the ‘divine’ couples makes their appearance; Mana’Din can hear similar calls and revelry, from the Night Palace, where Selene and Dirthamen have no doubt emerged. Serahlin and Adannar will come from the city’s centre, to meet them for the procession to the Grand Pavilion, where Ghilan’eth and Ana’druil are already waiting.

“I feel like something is going to happen,” Mana’Din admits, quietly, and lets her hand slide down to lace her fingers through his. Her left palm itches. “And that it will happen soon.”

“I know,” Pride replies, squeezing her gently. He looks at her, and his eyes look like the sky above his head. Like they might crack, somehow, with the coming storm.

“Stay close to me,” she asks.

He lifts their hands, and presses a kiss to the back of her palm. The crowd cheers again, and Mana’Din recollects herself. They have people to protect. They have ceremonies to begin, and it is more than possible that this feeling of ill-omens will not realize itself tonight. When one is as old as they are, ‘soon’ can mean anything from a minute to a century.

Death knows that even when something is inevitable, living in anticipation of it can sometimes be as pointless as living in denial of it.

“Whatever comes,” Pride says, quietly.  _Whatever comes, I will stay by your side._  He had promised her that, the first night she kissed him. 

She nods, and together, they begin their walk to the Grand Pavilion. 


	18. Pretty Men at Swordpoint

The ambush is unexpected.

Of course, if it were expected, it would not have been an ambush.

The only warning that they get is the rippling of the Dreaming. Dirthamen pauses, and grasps his brother by the arm to halt him, too. Falon’Din stops the procession, but turns to him with evident annoyance.

“What?”

“The air is wrong,” Dirthamen supplies, for lack of better words.

Falon’Din shrugs off his touch.

“A large spirit passed through…”

“No.”

That had been his first thought, too, but the quality of the air is wrong for it. A large spirit would leave behind impressions. Echoes to dance between the trees or flit up towards the clouds. Some large magic was done here, and in the moment when Dirthamen realizes that it is  _still_  being done - it breaks.

The illusion spell crashes down as two dozen elves, armed to teeth, descend upon them.

There is no further time for speculation, then, as the need to fight takes over. Falon’Din roars at the troops accompanying them and begins casting his spells, as Dirthamen summons up a barrier, and focuses on the magic he can still feel. More illusions. There is a second-

Another spell collapses. Another dozen warriors descend.

_Too slow._

He does not even have his weapon drawn, yet, when a burst of magic collides with his barrier and breaks it with jarring efficiency. Their attackers do not outnumber them, but as six of their warriors fall, their numbers prove a futile advantage. The chaos of battle steals over them, then, too close and fierce to permit them to cast large spells, or gain the distance needed for a withdrawal. Dirthamen attempts to cast but is forced to skitter backwards as a blade slices through the air where his arm had been. He draws his shortsword, and meets the next attack.

It falls with enough force to make his teeth rattle. His form shifts, accordingly; body growing armoured and sharp, extra limbs sprouting from his back, and drawing the weapons at his side. He has to focus on coordinating his form, as his brother casts a spell that eviscerates one of their assailants, and then drives his spear through another. But the ambush has yielded too many advantages to their foes; more of their guard falls.

Falon’Din curses. Their link bends, and Dirthamen knows what he will do before he does it.

It is a bad decision. But they may not have good ones, in this moment where choices must be made faster than can be accounted for.

The narrow pass they had been traversing shakes as his brother takes on his draconic shape. His body twists and his scales gleam, his wings unfurl and his breath erupts from a mouth that is still shifting, spewing acidic, fiery poison across their enemies and allies alike. Dirthamen’s opponent screams in fury. A tall elf, masked, with an aura that crackles like fire. He attempts to steal the opening and strike her, but even with her anguished cry still on her lips, she thwarts his blow.

The ground trembles.

Up in the sky, an unfamiliar dragon roars.

Falon’Din, sensing the source of their attack and the true, most singular enemy at hand, takes off with enough rush of acrid breath. His claws rake the pass and the rush of wind from his wings knocks even Dirthamen from his feet. His brother flies determinedly towards the enemy.

Dirthamen knows he is meant to follow.

But the terrain around them was never meant to be subjected to the energies and physical forces that have just torn through it. There is no room for him to shift without killing yet more of their own people, and in the moment of his hesitation, the rock wall alongside the pass gives way. Boulders follow the same route as their attackers. The impulse to go after his brother and the impulse to defend their allies and the impulse to fend off his opponent all collide, tangling, and his opponent suffers fewer doubts.

A rush of conjured flame slams him backwards, into the path of the falling rocks. Dirthamen’s decision is made as he summons a barrier to prevent them all being immediately crushed. His arms strain and his magic flares and crackles, and his form shifts and shrinks, warping into something more malleable. The rockslide worsens as something smashes into the mountain above. He feels the tremors, feels his brother’s pain, and hears the roaring of dragons.

He needs to leave.

But he cannot move.

The situation is so excruciating in its familiarity that in the end it takes him far too long to recollect that he can  _repel_  the boulders. In a rush, then, he does so, sending them rocketing further down the path, and barely making it to his feet before his same opponent catches him again.

The roars sound more distant as Dirthamen’s shortsword is knocked from his hand.

“Bastard!” his assailant cries. “False god! You will pay for their lives!”

Her attacks are fast, and licked with flame. It ignites the poison lingering in the air around them, as Dirthamen reels back, and switches one of his spare blades to his dominant hand. He tries to cast a spell, but the air is warping in the aftermath of Falon’Din’s dragon breath, and it flies wild. Once again, then, he is left staggering and shifting his form, attempting to meet the furious blows that are raining down upon him. Most of the other combatants are succumbing to the poisoned air, but the woman attacking does not slow. Nor does she relent, as he falls back, and then back again, searching for ground he can fight upon, for spells that will sing true. He grows extra limbs as he needs them, but a full transformation would take time that she refuses to grant him. Every second he stops is another moment in which the sharpened edge of her weapon rains downwards, or in which a blast of flame steals the breath from his lungs.

His attacker is no Keeper, but she is besting him.

  
Dirthamen does not think it is appropriate, under the circumstances, for him to be impressed. But it is still impressive, so it does not matter either way. Her shape does not even shift or change, and in a moment when it finally seems as if she might at last be slowing, she lets loose a terrible shout of rage and anguish, and slams a leg against his side in a kick that is forceful enough to send him spinning over the ground.

Dirthamen lands further down the path. As his body hits the dirt, he feels the  _snap_  of a magical trap close around him.

Oh.

…That is not good.

The air is thick. As if, in a column around him, it has become very deep water instead. His form is forced into its default shape so abruptly that it is nauseating. Through the bond with Falon’Din, he feels flares of stark pain and fear, and an urgency that he suspects indicates his brother is fleeing. His magic is severed from his fingertips. Just-beyond-reach, just far enough that Dirthamen supposes his fate is sealed. He attempts to narrow his connection to his brother, to minimize the damage to him, as he struggles to get himself up onto his knees.

His vision blurs for several minutes.

His head pounds.

And after a moment, he becomes aware of the steady sound of footsteps, and the rasp of heavily drawn breaths. Blood trickles down his neck. His muscles ache, and so do his bones, straining from the pain of being forced into his default form. After a moment, the trap saps enough of the magic away from him that his mask can no longer remain affixed to his face. It falls to the ground in front of his knees.

He sees a pair of booted feet stop just outside the ring of the trap.

There is a long pause. Dirthamen spends it walling himself further away from his brother. The nature of the trap helps. He has failed, but in terms of mitigating the consequences, he thinks he has done what he can. He sees a gleam of silver, and feels hard, cold starmetal press against the underside of his chin.

The weapon forces his head up.

Dirthamen blinks at the woman who has bested him. She is framed by the sunset. Her own mask has been lost, somewhere. Her green eyes are bright, and her expression is hard. He lets himself feel some admiration for her. Perhaps even something else, harder to name. She has beaten him - whoever she is. It is over, now, and there is almost a strange relief in that. Dirthamen does not wish to die, but he is not certain he has accomplished much by living, either. But now the matter has been taken out of his hands.

No more decisions to make.

No more mistakes.

She is a beautiful executioner, he thinks, as her gaze bores into his own. Dirthamen finds he does not wish to close his eyes. He stares back, and waits. For the moment when she will move her blade. For the finishing blow, that is destined to fall.

He waits, and waits. The blade lowers from his chin. The woman sucks in ragged breaths, and then bursts into coughs.

“Shit,” she swears. “Stop looking at me like that!”

Dirthamen blinks, and then obligingly averts his gaze.

“My apologies,” he says, as the woman’s coughing clears. It is harder to kill someone when they are looking at you, ostensibly. He had forgotten that. How inconsiderate of him. He keeps his gaze down, but after a few minutes, the blow still does not fall.

When he ventures a look up again, the woman is staring angrily down at him.

“Why did you apologize?” she demands.

Again, Dirthamen blinks.

“I did not realize I was being discourteous…” he ventures.

There is another pause. He cannot deduce much of the quality of this silence. The woman’s brows furrow, and her hand tightens on the hilt of her blade. It is a good weapon, he notes. There are only a few of their enemies with the resources to forge starmetal. Most likely, this is the Coalition of clans who the empire has branded unspeakable. Nameless.

Or it is a single clan, which has somehow gone unaccounted for in the past centuries of conflict. A thing his mother had greatly worried over, he knows.

He does not suppose it will matter much. He cannot leave the information in the Dreaming, trapped as he is, and he will not live to report back.

After a moment, he lowers his eyes again, and obligingly leans forward to better expose his neck.

He hears a few more heavy breaths.

“… _Fuck,”_  his opponent then exclaims. There is a loud  _clatter,_  and her weapon strikes the dirt outside the barrier.

…Interesting approach.

“Are you not going to kill me?” he wonders, confused.

“…No,” the woman says. And then repeats, more firmly. “No. I am not giving you the satisfaction. You are coming back as my prisoner. I have you trapped, and what good is a trap if I do not make full use of it? I am sure you will have… plenty of… of… things of… you are my prisoner! Death is too good for you!”

She levels a stern finger at him.

Dirthamen ventures a nod.

It seems his situation is even more dire than he had anticipated.


	19. Hades/Persephone AU

It is Selene’s first Official party.

She has attended several before, of course. Under fake names, or disguises, or the watchful eye of her Nanae. Even at her own brothers wedding, she’d been barred from revealing herself. Watching in silence and solitude as her brother, her wonderful, talented, artistic brother who is hailed as a demigod of Peace willingly joined with a War-mongering Champion of the Sun God Elgar'nan.

Not that she’s biased, of course. Her brother seems very happy with him, and even if she doesn’t understand it herself, she will not begrudge him for seeking out his happiness.

 

But tonight, she has no disguises. No aliases, no glamours to hide behind. Her Nanae has carefully helped her to piece together the outfit; a high collared, well-made robe, a crown of flowers twined from the white lilies near the river, and accessories to pull them all together. Selene leaves her hair down, glad to be free of the weights of pins and stones that would normally fill it whenever she left the house. 

Still, her Nanae remains uncharacteristically nervous.

 

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Nanae,” Selene sighs “Of course it is.”

“We could push this back, you know. There’s no need to reveal you at a gathering this large. Perhaps a smaller one would be preferable? Your brother is unveiling his newest sculpture next month, that could be-”

 

“ _ **Nanae**_ ,” Selene presses. “You have been keeping me hidden for  _twenty five_  years. I am tired of listening to the people speculating about my existence. I am tired of people  _doubting_  my existence. I want to spread my wings, I want to live as you do! Out in the open, without hiding my talents. I want to interact with the people who enjoy my creations. I want to meet others who are like me.  _I want to go to the gathering._ ”

 

Her Nanae frowns, long fingers cupping the side of Selenes face.

“Of course you do. But these people are tricky. They twist the world to fit the truths which suit them best.”

“And you would never do something like that?” She asks with a skeptical raised eyebrow.

“Of course not. I twist words, not people,” They grin, before their face droops at Selene’s unimpressed expression. “For my sake, please. At least remember, ‘Look like the innocent flower,”

“'But be the serpent under it,'” Selene recites. “Yes, Nanae. May we go now? Please?”

With a soft hum of approval and a final straightening of their crowns, the two head out towards Arlathan.

–

 

“Announcing the arrival of Potentate Melarue, and the Lady Selene,” Calls the Herald as they enter the main ballroom together.

Whispers erupt, several people stopping mid dance to glance up at the pair. Thera are… _so many_  people. Several species, from all around the world. Rulers, Gods, diplomats. All well dressed, and decked in their finest jewels and enchantments. So many unfamiliar eyes, focused on them. 

On her.

Selene swallows nervously, as her Nanae continues down the steps without breaking their stride. A few hurried steps to catch up, and Selene follows their stride until they reach the floor. A few of the other attendees have already come to greet them.

“Melarue, dear, it’s been too long,” croons one.

“This must be that daughter of yours we’ve heard so much about,” drawls another, bending to place a kiss to the back of Selenes bare hand.

 

Selene nods politely in acknowledgment before pulling her hand back, glancing to Melarue and suddenly wondering if perhaps she is too inexperienced to be here after all. But one of them asks her to dance. They use her name, and look her in the eye, and it is a strange moment for her. Stuck between staying near to her Nanae all evening as she has done so many times before under guise of an attendant, or finally snatching a few moments of freedom for herself.

It is not a difficult decision for her. Selene agrees to dance, and is swept off her feet, losing time in the rhythms and melodies as she laughs and dances with partner after partner throughout the evening.

She excuses herself for a drink when her legs begin to ache, and finds herself standing beside an older woman with long silver hair and sharp golden eyes.

 

“You seem to be having quite the night,” The woman notes.

“Yes. It’s rather exhilarating,” Selene smiles back.

“I don’t recall seeing you at these gatherings before. Lady Selene, was it?”

“Yes, that’s right. And you are?”

“Lady Mythal.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Mythal,” Selene greets with a courteous tip of her head.

“And you,” She smiles. The servant returns with two glasses in hand, and Mythal offers one to Selene. It is some sweet smelling substance, golden silks glittering against her arms as they move. Mythal lifts her glass up to the light and towards Selene “May you find what it is you desire tonight,” she toasts before taking a sip.

 

Selene holds her own glass up in tandem, and takes a sip in customary thanks. It burns on the way down, but the substance is thick and sweet as honey on her tongue.

 

They part ways after that, and Selene returns to the floor for a few more songs as the band plays on. Before long, her head begins to feel fuzzy, and the shooting stars embedded in the ceiling begin to blur above her.

Someone asks if she is alright, and she tries to nod. “Just need a bit of air,” she assures them.

One of the servants takes her by the arm and escorts her to the nearest exit, leading her out towards what appears to be a garden.

 

Selene stumbles out and into the open air as the servant returns to the party, breathing in the scent of embrium and oak. Familiar scents, comforting and grounding from the garden on her Nanaes property.

When she looks up however, she realizes that she is not alone.

 

There is a tall, slim man standing near a patch of white lilies. Shoulders adorned with a cloak made of deep black feathers, and hair tied back to match. The only spark of color on him seems to be the reflective blue of his eyes, and the sight of them makes Selenes breath catch.

“Please pardon my appearance,” he claims, moving into a deep bow.

“Are you normally  _more_  breathtaking, then?” Selene blurts, immediately regretting her gut reaction.

 

’ _Never speak the truth to a stranger_ ’, her Nanae had warned her.

 

The honesty seems to knock him off balance a bit at least, and he stammers slightly as he rights himself. “I normally wear a mask, but it seems to have been misplaced.”

“How do you misplace a mask?”

“It is…possible that I fell too deep into the dreaming during my meditation.”

“So you fell asleep then, and someone nabbed it right off your face,” Selene chuckles.

“It appears so.”

“Do you need any help?”

 

A terrified scream can be heard from the distance.

 

“There is no need,” Dirthamen notes “It seems the thief has revealed themselves. It should be no trouble for Fear to track them, and it, down now.”

Selene smiles “Well, that’s good then. Although it seems a shame to keep a face like yours hidden.”

He blinks, and a slight tint of red begins to color his cheeks “I…thank you.” His eyes dart up to her hair as he manages “You…ah, you enjoy lilies?”

Selenes nods “There’s a few that grow by the river where I grew up. They’re lovely.”

“Many associate them with death.”

“Death can be lovely, too, when it follows a good life.”

 

His brows crease slightly at her statement. With a glance downwards, he bends down and plucks a lily from the ground. After a moment of hesitation, he steps forward, and presents it to Selene.

 

She blinks, eyes darting between the flower and the man before her. “Is that for me?”

“If you would like it.”

Selenes face splits into a wide smile as she carefully takes the offering, her fingers brushing against his gloves. “Thank you. I’m afraid I don’t have anything to give you in return.”

“I would happily take your company, if you would offer it.”

“Well. Then I do.”

–

Over the course of the next hour, Selene and Dirthamen end up traversing the garden, conversing like old friends. She tells him stories of her childhood, and her interests, and they are both surprised to find they have many in common. The night draws on, moon heavy in the sky until she is leaning against one of the columns of the gazebo, his face only a breath away from her own. Her head starts to swim a bit, then. Still warm, and just a bit hazy in the way it gets when she has overused her magic.

 

“Who are you?” he finally asks, hand beside her head.

“I’m Selene,” she giggles.

“I am not familiar with you…that seems strange.”

“I thought you said you were bad with people, anyways. Perhaps you just don’t remember me?”

“I would remember you,” he murmurs.

 

Selene can feel her face flush at the compliment, even as she tries to change the subject. “I haven’t seen you around before, either.”

“I do not get out much. I have been away from my home and station for too long now, already.”

“Then why haven’t you gone back?”

“I find myself unwilling to leave you. It is a compelling notion, and I find that I would like to explore it further…”

 

Selene tilts her face slightly closer to his, closing off the space between them until her lips brush against his, a shock like lightning racing down her spine while she whispers. “Would you like to know my secret?”

“More than I have wanted anything in a very long time.”

 

She presses her lips fully against his then, letting out a soft sigh as he returns the gesture, one of his hands drifting to tangle in her hair while the other wraps around her waist. Her arms curl around his shoulders, fingers caressing his feathered cloak. Magic flares around them; a privacy ward, she notes. One of her hands trails up to skim along his ear and he lets out a heavy groan, pinning her gently against the pillar before he pulls back just enough to breathe.

 

“Will you come with me?” he asks.

“Yes,” Selene breathes. 

He plucks a petal from her crown and a feather from his cloak. Summoning a small bit of magic between them, he quickly crafts them into a fine set of rings. He places one on his own hand, and asks Selene for her own.

She hesitates.

“What is the ring for?”

“It will keep you safe, and grant you free passage to my lands.”

She glances up into his eyes again. Deep blue, and so, so lonely. She has fallen too fast to be wise, but oh, she has  _fallen_. And she  _wants_ this. She wants  **him**.

 

She gives him her hand.

 

The ring slips on, shrinking to fit her finger. Dirthamen shrugs his mantle from his shoulder, and places one end over Selenes. The cloak stretches to cover the both of them, new feathers fluttering like wings behind them, as the gazebo shifts into the form of a well. Dirthamen takes her hand in his, whispering soft words and promises and secrets that she only half-hears, before carrying the both of them off of the ledge and into the unending darkness of the well.

 

Selene expects it to feel like falling. Expects the air to rush around her, and her stomach to drop from out of her. But it is a controlled descent, rather like Dirthamen is floating down a very deliberate staircase. When he places her down to make the journey beside him, it is the closest to flying she has felt since she was a child. Each step bounces beneath her, and she finds it rather enjoyable, and turns to face the man beside her.

He is smiling.

She quite likes it.

 

There comes a lamplight, though, and their trip ends on a shore of black sand as Dirthamen returns the cloak to his own shoulders. The lamplight is coming from a small boat, docked on the shore. The person inside is very tall, with horns sprouting from her head and a ratted robe covering their body.

  
“My Lord,” she nods to Dirthamen, before turning to face Selene with a quizzical look.

“Kassaran,” he nods back. “We require passage.”

“Of course,” she agrees. “Does she have a coin?”

“She does not require one,” he says while lifting her hand. The one with the ring.

 

The Qunaris eyes go wide and she quickly glances between the two. “Oh. That is…unexpected.”

She gestures for the two of them to step into the boat without any further arguments. Dirthamen goes first, helping Selene inside as Kassaran pushes the craft off the sand and into the river with her paddle.

 

“Where is this?” Selene wonders aloud. The water is pitch black and glassy. She can not see to the bottom of it, and when she looks up, she sees only stalactites. No sky, no stars. No light but the lamp.

 

“My home,” Dirthamen asserts, squirming slightly.

“This is…very far from my own,” Selene notes, and Kass lets out a soft snort.

“He didn’t tell you?” She inquires, shooting Dirthamen a particularly hard look.

“It did not seem prudent to the situation at hand,” he defends.

She just shakes her head, and continues rowing the boat through the dark water in silence.

 

Selene turns her own gaze back to Dirthamen “Where are we?”

“…technically, we are currently on a boat.”

“ And where is that boat sailing?”

“On the River Styx.”

“The river-”Selene pauses as realization dawns on her.

“ _Did you kill me_?” She hisses.

 

“No! I would never do that,” he placates. “It is possible for the living to travel here, so long as they have protection. It is why I gave you that ring.”

Selene huffs, not thrilled at being tricked as she settles again. “So. You’re the Lord of the Underworld, then.”

“I am.”

“You could have mentioned that a bit earlier.”

“It did not seem relevant to the conversations we were having.”

Selene levels a stare at him, and he squirms again. “…I truly did not want to leave you. And I did not want you to leave me. We do not often have visitors. I believe the last was Kassaran here.”

 

Selene looks up at the woman, who is pointedly trying to stay out of their conversation and focus on her job.

 

With a glance around, and having no real option unless he wants to attempt to swim the river styx, Selene lets out a soft sigh “Alright. I suppose I am already here, there’s no point in going back now.”

“So you will stay? Willingly?” He asks, blue eyes glittering in the light of the lamp.

Selene nods “For now.”

He smiles, and presses his lips to her knuckles “Thank you.”

–

 

Back in Arlathan, the party is winding down, and Melarue realizes they have not seen Selene for a few hours now.

They had been trying to give her some space, but they were hoping to at least receive the the courtesy of a check-in at some point.

 

As they ask around for the whereabouts of their daughter, however, no one seems to have any idea where Selene ran off to.  _No one_  has seen her for several hours.

Melarue’s stomach begins to twist, and they push down the instinct to demand she be brought before them here and now as they search through the halls.

In their search, they come across Mythal. Standing alone in a hall with a curl to her lips, and their eyes narrow in suspicion.

“Where is my daughter?” They demand.

“What makes you think I would have any idea of your child’s location? It is not my job to keep an eye on unruly children.”

“I would hope not, or you have done a poor job with your own,” they shoot back.

Mythal frowns, and gives a simple shrug of her shoulders “I honestly do not know where she has run off to. If I discover anything, I will be sure to let you know once there is an opportune time. We do not have to be rivals, you know.”

 

Melarue does not stay any longer than that, blowing through hallways and searching through rooms in their search for Selene.

Their shadows spread, crawling into corners and cupboards, hidden alcoves and beneath the floorboards and turn up  _nothing_.

Selene is no longer in Arlathan.

 

Melarue will not let this stand.

* * *

There is no sunlight in the Underworld.

No birds sing in its sky, no rabbits frolic through its fields. She has never known a time without the rays shining around her. The fields here are barren, made of dirt and moss with rivers of magic and flame running through them. Nothing like her Nanaes lands, with their towering trees and flourishing plants tall enough to hide those in need of protection. There is no farmland that she can see, no sea of flowers to bloom with her laugh. 

The air is heavy and cold, whipping at the bared skin of her leg when it peeks from between the drape of her robe.  The only warmth Selene can find seems to be buried within the hand of the God helping her step out of the boat, and onto the shores of his kingdom.

 

There is no sunlight, but there are strings of luminescence throughout the streets. Hung like decorations over homes and walkways. Brilliant blues and greens giving a soft glow to the world around them, like pieces plucked and stolen from the world above. The buildings are simple, with tall columns forged from stones unfamiliar to her eye. Streets converge into each other, each step placed with purpose. A path leading to what seems to be a massive, twisting labyrinth that stretches up and up and up in an infinite loop.

It captivates her entirely.

 

“Come,” whispers the man beside her. “I will show you our home.”

 

Selene shivers as she tears her eye from the maze, and feels something whisper beneath her skin. A warning, perhaps?  
Or a promise.

 

She has no time to dwell on her thoughts, as she is swept through the thoroughfare. Signs and faces illuminated in the dim lighting. Some point at the pair, or whisper. A few wave, and Selene finds herself oddly compelled to return the gesture with the hand not being tightly grasped with gloved fingers.

There are  _people_ , here.

Are they all dead, she wonders?

Shouldn’t there be more of them, if they are?

 

It seems no more crowded than the town near her Nanaes home. Indeed, she has seen larger crowds at her brothers unveiling in her youth.

Still, she is lead without hesitation over cobbled stones, until the homes and light vanish once again. Until she is standing in the shadow of a massive palace, covered in pomp and elaborate carvings. It is very old, older than anything she had seen in the town by centuries, at least. It towers far higher than any other structure she has come by down here, save for the labyrinth.

And it seems so very,  _glaringly_ , out of place.

 

She is about to ask him, to inquire about the strangeness of the palace and the sharp contrast of its features to those of his own, someone whose entire wardrobe seems designed to help him blend into backgrounds and shadows and move unnoticed.

Someone else emerges, first.

 

“You are late,” they snap, striding confidently towards Dirthamen in a long coat and tall boots. “We have become backed up.”

“It can wait, Turmoil,” he returns. “We have a guest.”

 

They blink, eyes narrowing as they seem to notice Selene for the first time. Their gaze rakes over her, stopping as it reaches the hand still joined with their masters.

As they notice the rings.

 

“Are you kidding-” they groan, rubbing a hand down their eye. “We will deal with that later. The dead will not wait.”

“Of course they will. It’s not as though they have somewhere else to be.” Selene jokes, trying to ease some of the tension in the air.

 

It doesn’t work.

The shoulders of the God beside her raise sheepishly as Turmoils jaw practically drops in shock.

 

“She does not even know _how we work_ -” they hiss.

“She will learn,” he insists.

“If you expect me to teach her, you will find yourself sorely disappointed. My plate is full enough trying to keep your head above water.”

“I was planning on teaching her myself, in fact.”

 

“Oh, and in the meantime, we’ll just, what, let the dead run loose, all…” their arms shoot up and make a sharp spiral gesture “All  _willy-nilly_ , because our King is busy with his…his….” he gestures wildly and turns towards Selene “Whatever you are!”

 

“I’m just visiting.” she tries to assure him.

 

“Oh good! We are doing  _ **tours**_  now!”

 

“I’ll show her around!” chimes in a new voice. High, and young. Selene turns toward the source, and finds a young Qunari girl with still budding horns grinning up at her.

  
“That is not necessary, Ashokara.” Dirthamen frowns.

 

“It’s fine! I’m all done with my chores, so you can go work and I’ll help her get settled. You can always come find us later, right?”

 

Dirthamen glances back to Selene uncertainly, finger rubbing gingerly at the ring on her finger as Turmoils foot taps impatiently behind him.

“I suppose that would be best for everyone,” he finally says. “Please do not allow her to come to any harm.”

 

“Would  _I_  do that?” the young girl retorts with an innocent look on her face.

 

Dirthamen only frowns deeper in response.

 

“We’ll be careful,” she agrees, arms looping behind her back. “No swimming, I promise.”

 

Turmoil hurriedly pulls everyone into agreement, dragging Dirthamen into the overshadowing palace as they fill his arms with scrolls and begin whatever sort of work they do.

Selene supposes she will find out soon enough.

 

“Sooo…”Ashokara drawls from beside her “You’re the new Queen, huh?”

Selene blinks, as she refocuses on the child standing beside her. “I’m sorry?”

 

The young qunari points to the ring on her finger “You married the King, that makes you the Queen.”

“Oh,” Selene says as she glances down at the piece of jewelry “We didn’t get married. He just gave me a gift, is all.”

“It’s on the married finger, like my mama’s used to be.”

“Customs can vary from culture to culture. You’ll understand more when you’re older.” Selene explains.

“I’m already 809. How old am I supposed to be?”

 

Selene blinks.

Blinks again.

“I’m sorry. 809…what? Seasons?”

“No, years. How old are you, like a  _billion_?”

“No! No, I’m-I’m 25!”

 

“Ohhhh. Sounds like maybe  _you’re_  the one who doesn’t understand then, huh?” Ashokara hums knowingly as she begins to skip away.

 

Selene staggers after her, still curious for more answers.

And also determined to prove the girl wrong, just a bit. She certainly isn’t _married_. She would know.

 

…Wouldn’t she?

* * *

 

When the sun rises over their fields, and Selene has still not been found, Melarue begins to rage.

It starts quietly. Small bursts in the shadows, a few buds plucked before their time, a tree or two robbed of its harvest before bearing any fruit.

 

Aelynthi has not heard from his sister either. Nor has his husband, or his team of warriors hunting for her in lands beyond their immediate reach.

No one else seems willing to help with their search. Elgar'nan and Mythal are too preoccupied with their own duties, and send only promises to help when they have the resources to spare. Andruil is busy hunting her wifes newest creation for the Summer feast, Sylaise and June with cleaning up the previous nights affair and planning the next gathering to be held.

Selene is not a  _priority_ , it seems.

So they will make her one.

 

The forests housing Ghilan'nains prey begin to rot, and crumble. Leaves turn to gold and then to brown, falling long before they are due. Crops begin to mold, and expire. Acres of flowers, planted for their daughter, for her bloom, for her  _laugh,_  turn to cold barren plots of dirt and sand that will provide neither life nor sustenance now.

The trees no longer give reprieve from the blazing heat of the sun, forcing people into their homes, sending them to curse the God who burns too intensely, who must not care for them any longer, who keeps them in such a fatigued, drowsy state. The grass turns sour, ruining the milk of any cows or creature who taste it. Parents reliant on the product to feed their children, cry out, cursing the Goddess who is supposed to look out for their families, who is meant to aid them with her heart and her wisdom.

 

As the people grow more anxious, more hungry, more in need of help, Melarue notes, the other Gods begin to pay their concerns more attention.

Mythal knocks on their doors before the week is even out.

 

“Melarue,” they coo. “What seems to be ailing you?”

 

“You know well that my daughter has vanished. Do not play these games with me. I am tired of them, and the people will not survive them long enough for you to get your fill.”

 

Mythal tsks. “This is a tantrum then, because your daughter has chosen to leave you? You are not so weak as that, Melarue. She will come back, in time. Children simply need their space, to grow, and to learn.”

 

“Selene would not leave me. I understand you may not grasp that a child may truly love their parent, but she would not run like this. Not from me.”

 

“She will come back when she is ready,” Mythal dismisses “There is no reason to punish the people for her mistakes.”

 

“You have done something. I know you, we have known each other far too long for me to believe you are not behind this in some capacity.”

 

“Tread carefully. Accusations like that sound suspiciously like treason, and your rage is rising to the surface. We would not want another war. There is no need to exile another member of our pantheon.”

 

“As though you did not manipulate the state of things to fit the end you desired, even then.” Melarue snarls, taking a step closer to the Goddess.

 

“How  _ **dare**_  you. I loved my son, I never would have-”

 

“You love  _power_  more. Your son was unstable, he was unable to care for his wards, and you wanted anothers domain because your own was weakening. I see through you, Mythal. I will not sacrifice a  _single_ child, and the world will remain barren until my daughter is safely returned to me.”

 

“You would not sacrifice the People. You are bluffing.”

  
  


Melarue raises a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “It would be a shame, would it not? For the People to perish while the Goddess who claimed to protect them did nothing? I would  _hate_  for your image to suffer because you thought my threats empty.”

Mythal hesitates.

Then turns, and walks out as calmly as she had entered.

 

Melarue waits for her to leave entirely, before donning their cloak and sweeping into town.

_Someone_  knows where their daughter is.

 

* * *

 

 

“…and that’s section twelve, and that’s fourteen over there…” Ashokara drones on, pointing down different intersections while Selene nods along beside her.

 

“Everything is so well organized here,” Selene notes. “It’s very efficient.”

“It’s boring, y'mean.”

“I like it.” Selene grins.

“Yeah, well. The people like it better now, too.”

 

Selene pauses, hesitates with her foot just barely off the ground. “ ‘Now’?”

“Yeah, sure. Since Dirthamen took over.”

“He wasn’t always the God of the Dead?”

 

“Nah, he used to be wisdom and…I dunno, some other stuff I guess? I never knew him then, he’s been here a lot longer than me. Some other people remember before, though. It was pretty bad, from what I hear. He built the labyrinth, and now that’s all anyone talks about. Or does.”

 

Selene glances up, attention stolen once more by the swirling, growing puzzle in the center of the city, and the hushed whispers pushing goosebumps over her skin.

“So…it wasn’t always there?”

“Nope.”

“When did it show up?”

Ashokara shrugs “Before I did. You’d have to ask someone older.”

“You were never curious?”

 

“Ew, no.” Ashokaras nose crinkles. “It gives me really awful creep vibes, just from looking at it too long.”

 

“Oh,” Selene hums curiously. “You showed up…almost eight centuries ago, yeah?”

“Yeah….”

 

Her head turns to look at Ash. The previously energetic girl suddenly turned morose, staring down at her feet. With a gentle nudge, Selene offers a warm smile.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

 

“I’m not really  _supposed_ to…”

 

“Well, I’m the Queen, right?” Selene grins “You can tell the Queen. I’ll give you a royal pardon if anyone tries to give you trouble.”

 

Ashokaras eyes narrow, and dart from side to side before she snags Selenes hand, and tugs her away from the buildings, and back towards the river Styx. They take shelter at the foot of a large dune, and Ashokara settles carefully onto the ground.

“You can’t tell anyone, ok? Mama and I aren’t supposed to tell people what happened.”

 

Selene nods, and sits down beside the girl on the shore.

 

“So…when I was…still topside,” Ashokara explains “Father wasn’t very nice. He yelled a lot, and he hurt Mama. One night, he was screaming more than usual, and he tried to  _really_  hurt Mama. She got hurt so bad she stopped breathing. I was little, but I knew what that meant, and it made me somad, and scared, and I couldn’t understand  _why_. Mama’s so nice, she didn’t deserve to get hurt like that.” Ashokaras gaze grows distant, as she skips a rock across the river. “I lost control of my magic. I wanted to make  _him_  hurt, too. I wanted to save Mama, but I didn’t know how. He and I both burned, until we were all…down here. It was really different, when we arrived.

Everything was really crowded. They were still recovering from some big fight, so there was rubble everywhere and bodies pressed up against each other, and everyone was freaking out. Father was right next to me, still, and he was so  _angry_  with me, once he realized what had happened.”

 

Ashokara lets out a stuttering breath, hands rubbing tenderly at the tips of her horns. “But I looked around, tried to get away from him. A little ways away, I could see Mama in the crowd, and I tried to run to her but I….” Ashokara trails off, sniffling and wiping away a few tears from her face as she tries to calm herself down. Selene places a soothing hand on the girls shoulder for support, and Ashokara nods before continuing. “I tried to go to her, to make sure he couldn’t get to her again. To feel safe again, myself.  But I couldn’t get through the crowd, and when I tried to get around everyone, I fell. Into Phlegethon.”

She flings another rock towards the river running parallel to the Styx, and Selene watches as it bounces off of a barrier. “ There weren’t any barriers to keep people out of the rivers, then. If you fell, you were just…lost. Phlegethon is the River of  _Fire_. It hurt. It hurt  _so much_ , I couldn’t stop screaming. I don’t even know how long I was in there. Everything just blurred together in what felt like an eternity of torture. But then Dirthamen pulled me out.”

 

“That was very kind of him,” Selene says.

 

“I guess. He and Mama made a deal. He was still trying to sort everything out down here, and having people just popping up in the middle of town made it hard for him to work or something, so Mama agreed to work for him if he’d save me. Now she spends all her time ferrying people on that stupid boat….”

 

“She loves you.” Selene whispers, a sharp pain of guilt in her chest as she thinks of her Nanae, still in the world above. How much time has passed since she’s been down here, she wonders. They must be so worried…

 

“I know,” Ashokara sighs, snapping Selene out of her reverie “I love her too. I get to see her still, sometimes. And Dirthamen lets us live in the palace, so I don’t feel so alone when Mama’s working. But it’s got all these empty rooms, and there’s no one but me and all these other people that work for him, and they’re always _working_ , because people never  _stop dying_ , and it’s just…it’s lonely.”

 

“I’m sorry.” Selene offers, at a loss of what else she has to give.

 

“Yeah, well…” Ashokara sniffs. “Life happens. Or death, as it goes.”

“…Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Dead.”

 

Ashokara snorts. “Nah. When he pulled me out of the river, he fed me a piece food from here. So I’m technically just a resident of the underworld, not one of the dead.”

“So the people in town  _aren’t_  dead?”

“No, they just live here. Sort of. Mortality is weird in this realm. Like, you can choose to die if you get approval, or you can get hurt or murdered if you piss someone off or something, but you can’t get sick and you don’t age unless you want to.”

 

“So you choose to look like a kid?” Selene teases.

“You would be amazed what people let you get away with when you look like this.” Ashokara grins.

 

Selene laughs, loud and light. The ground beneath her erupts into greenery, flowers blossoming at her feet, in a wide spectrum of colors. Ferns trail around her, making patterns to match her timbre until she stops for breath.

 

Ashokara stares at her in wonderment.

“How did you  _do_  that?”

 

Selene looks around at the new greens around her. “Oh, it just sort of happens, sometimes. I get it from my Nanae, but they can do it at will. I’m still learning, so it tends to just sort of…” She gestures vaguely “Sprout.”

“Nothing grows here, though. Nothing but lilies, and those still require almost a whole team devoted just to growing them!”

 

“….whoops?”

“Can you do more?”

 

“Perhaps later,” booms a deeper voice from the top of the hill behind them. “Selene, will you come with me, please?”

 

Selene swallows, looking guiltily up at Dirthamen as she brushes some sand and dirt from her robes and helps Ashokara to her feet.

 

Hopefully he won’t be too upset about the plants.


	20. Maze AU

When Dirthamen first built the labyrinth to cage his brother, it was in a remote region, far from any settlements.

A mountain basin surrounded by thick wilds. A place where his brother had secretly constructed his own spirit vault, secure in the knowledge that the odds of anyone finding it were minimal. Dirthamen had laboured for years to create the labyrinth. To make it not only a place where his brother could be contained, but where he could live, too. Filled with puzzles and challenges, trials to overcome, and opportunities for Falon’Din to attain the personal growth and self-realizations that might save him from the dark path which Dirthamen’s own poor counsel had set him upon.

It had not worked.

Dirthamen’s counsel and ideas remained poisonous to his brother, who had raged against being contained, and over the years had reshaped the labyrinth into a place of increasing danger and instability. Dirthamen was forced to build outward, in order to keep Falon’Din contained. He was forced to reconsider the challenges of the maze, and make the outer layers more hostile towards his brother, in order to discourage his escape. Falon’Din’s wrath and anger only seemed to grow with each new ring that was built; but through great effort, Dirthamen at last secured the structure against his brother’s escape.

It took centuries.

By the time the last wall of the labyrinth had been put into place, the remote mountain basin was no longer quite so far-flung from the edges of mortal society. Villages began to crop up. Campsites and settlements built by wandering nomads were made. Trade routes and hunting grounds began to spread through the thick wilderness, and for the first time in an Age, Dirthamen found himself spying elves in the distance. Hearing their voices ring out, speaking the language he had only heard whispered by spirits for centuries, or shrieked by his brother in incoherent rage.

He does not know what to make of it. But he is wary of the development. His brother always was able to sway the hearts of mortals, and Dirthamen fears that they might have come to worship him again. To break apart the labyrinth and free him. Which would not be good. Falon’Din is not ready to be freed; the cost to the world around them would be too great to permit it.

But he did not design the labyrinth to be difficult to enter. Only to escape.

The first few elves to venture inside do not appear to be priests. Dirthamen attempts to dissuade them, but when he approaches them outside of the labyrinth walls, his form seems to alarm them. They race inside in an effort to escape him, and as he pursues them through the maze, he is reminded starkly of the fragility of mortal elves. Two of the four elves do not survive the first ring of the maze that they enter. Yet another is lost to the varterral guards of the second ring. The fourth makes it far enough for Falon’Din to find them. His brother attempts to seize control of the mortal’s mind, and when he finds his powers too depleted for such things, he traps the elf instead. It takes Dirthamen several weeks to relocate them, and by the time he does, the final mortal has perished in a most terrible fashion.

Falon’Din’s interest is heightened, however. He seems to realize, after the fact, the implications of having been rediscovered.

Dirthamen does not think anything good can come of it.

He attempts to dissuade further intrusions from mortal elves by placing warnings around the labyrinth. This seems to work, for a time. Most travelers heed them. But as the settlements in the region grow and develop, the warnings lose some of their effectiveness. The basin is nestled between a large port city and several interior villages. Going around the labyrinth takes weeks - even months, if landslides have cut off other pathways. Passing through the labyrinth would, theoretically, only take a matter of days - the temptation to conquer the trial and open up a viable trade route seems more compelling to mortals than Dirthamen can countenance.

He knows time is precious to those with finite lifespans. But he cannot see the logic in risking certain death for a matter of days.

The second group of mortal elves to attempt the labyrinth does not fare better than the first. Falon’Din makes more efforts to seize control of their minds, but that ability is lost to him. The labyrinth will not allow it - mostly by accident, in fact. Dirthamen’s wards are meant to keep his brother from manipulating their bond and controlling  _him,_  and yet, they seem to work well enough at preventing other forms of control as well.

It is interesting, even if the discovery still comes on a wave of death and tragedy.

Eventually, more elves come. An explorer establishes a camp near to the labyrinth. Mortals who seem versed in magic and the mechanics of the world begin to investigate the borders of the maze, and at first, do not venture inside of it. Dirthamen watches, dispatching Fear and Deceit to observe the comings and goings, and is wary that at last a group of his brother’s worshippers have come to try and dismantle the walls. They do not seem adequately equipped for such a task, however, and after a time, Dirthamen comes to realize that they simply seem… curious?

They take tracings of the wards he has made. Draw pictures of the structures along the outer walls. When the varterrals cry at night, and the sound reverberates throughout the basin, Deceit spies several mortals making furious note of the noises and debating the possible sources.

It is several weeks before Fear overhears the mortals speak of venturing inside.

An impending disaster.

Falon’Din is not aware of the camp of mortals just beyond the outer walls of his prison. But he is always attentive, these days, for any signs of outside presence in the labyrinth. He wanders often, and does not sleep. Beyond the need for rest, now, as the maze changes him in ways that even Dirthamen could not have anticipated. He has kept the bones of the other mortals he slew. They remind him of death; of the position he himself once held, as a guide to the space beyond the veil.

A guide…

Dirthamen hesitates at the thought.

While his ability to track Falon’Din’s movements is imprecise, he is generally aware of where in the maze his brother happens to be at any given time. Near or far, north or south; the interior rings or the external ones. If the mortals are so set upon entering the labyrinth, perhaps… perhaps he could at least help advise them on where to go?

But the last time he approached the elves, they fled.

Dirthamen considers the matter a great deal, before at last sending Fear and Deceit in his stead. Deceit takes on the form of a mortal elf, while Fear remains a raven. The pair approach the camp of elves, and are brought to the expedition’s leaders. Deceit attempts to counsel the elves to leave the labyrinth, to explain that it is dangerous. The mortals do not seem to take their words at face value, however. They seem to think that Deceit is ‘superstitious’ and strange, but they are interested in the concept of a ‘local’ to the region. They ask many questions which Deceit cannot answer. They grow frustrated.

Dirthamen’s social ineptitude is proving costly again.

Despite his efforts, the mortals go through with their plan to send elves into the labyrinth. Deceit and Fear go with them; navigating the maze is far easier for Dirthamen and his aspects than for anyone else. The elves attempt to mark the entrance which they came by, but that is not how the labyrinth works. Once they are inside, there is no means of backtracking to exit by the same way again. The walls shift, and the mortals must find a new exit.

Fortunately, there are several options for that. Deceit advises the expedition members stay in the outer ring. Some listen; others do not. Cutting straight through the maze, they believe, is the fastest way out. The group splits into two, though the elves attempt to maintain contact via magical threads and charmed items. Those fail to work in short order, however. The labyrinth sucks the magical energy from them. It creates illusions. Designs once meant to build trials for Falon’Din, pluck up the same from the minds of the mortal elves - though at least, with Deceit and Fear present, the varterrals do not hunt them.

The group heading towards the center of the labyrinth lose contact with the others. As they venture closer to Falon’Din’s location, Fear leaves Deceit to attempt to warn the group away. The mortals ignore the raven, until it is almost too late. Falon’Din is able to capture two of them, and subjects them to his… methods. The third elf flees as his fellows are mutilated, and at last follows Fear, who flies at a distance to avoid their brother’s chase. It is luck, far more than design, which has the maze shifting in a fashion that distracts Falon’Din just long enough for Fear to lead the survivor back towards the outer maze, and find a path that rejoins with the others.

The survivor - Elrogathe, his name is - trembles and shakes, and speaks with haunted eyes of the monster at the center of the maze.

His fellows are forced to carry him the rest of the way. But the make it through to the nearest exit, following Deceit, and leaving behind the bones of their less fortunate colleagues. The doorway takes them to the other side of the labyrinth; and so they must trek back along the exterior. Some of them take more notes. But many seem only to eager to be gone from the maze for good, and their recountings once they return to the camp are filled with horror.

Dirthamen wonders if this will be the end of it. If the experience, now with witnesses to attest to it, shall prove harrowing enough that the mortals will give up on venturing near to this place.

He hopes so.

But the camp does not disband. The leaders seem most intrigued by Deceit’s usefulness in passing through the labyrinth. Another expedition sets out - but this time, the elves seem more inclined to simply do as Deceit advises. The group does not split up, and the center of the maze is avoided. Falon’Din can move where he likes, however. Dirthamen must spare a great deal of his own focus for tracking his brother, in order for Deceit and Fear to lead their party through the passageways that do not intersect with his location. At times, the mortals pass close enough that they seem to become aware of his presence. Their voices drop into silence - which is good - and while some of the trials of the labyrinth have put them seemingly at odds with one another, they nevertheless walk more closely together, the closer Falon’Din’s presence comes.

And yet, they make it through.

Perhaps that is a mistake. Dirthamen does not wish death upon these mortals, but when an entire party is able to safely traverse the labyrinth, interest in further trips is only encouraged.

He tries many things. Deceit refuses to accompany some groups. Those groups do not make it through, however, and Dirthamen feels immense guilt for their deaths. The mortals begin to offer Deceit payments, rewards, even a title as Guide. Deceit accepts, if only to stave off more death. But as months turn to years, the position affords Dirthamen some modicum of control over the situation. The mortals realize that entering the maze without Deceit is a death sentence. So they are able to refuse some escorts, to deny some elves access to the interior. Those who might be more susceptible to Falon’Din’s influences, or those who seem too apt to ignore Fear or Deceit, or even those who do not have the sturdiness to withstand the labyrinth’s trials. Dirthamen begins to modify some of the outer layer. He cannot make the place easier to escape, for that would defeat its purpose. But he can make some of it less hostile towards the mortals who attempt a crossing.

It is a great deal of work, though. And as he expends his energy on this, Falon’Din gluts himself on the bones he has collected, and grows eager for more.

The mortal elves, too, investigate much of the magic of the labyrinth. Indeed, the seems to become a more pressing point of interest for some of them than simply traversing the distance itself. Few traders are willing to take the risks presented. Though, some attempt it. Not many who pass through the labyrinth once are willing to take the trip a second time. But some do. The most curious, the most eager to gather information from the spellwork woven into its walls, sometimes muster the wherewithal.

A decade passes. The faces at the campsite come and go. Some who have been involved in the project from the beginning start to remark on how well Deceit is ‘aging’, and so after a time Deceit creates the illusion of an apprentice, to maintain the appearance of mortality. They modify their appearance to begin to look older, though it seems they are imperfect at it. It is easier, then, to simply falsify a scenario wherein Deceit is killed within the labyrinth, and their ‘apprentice’ - who is merely Deceit’s projection - takes over the role of Guide.

After that, Deceit merely wears a slightly different-looking guise, and answers to another name.

Though many mortals remark that ‘Sairal’ is not as exemplary a guide as their predecessor. Dirthamen is somewhat surprised when a memorial is erected; he had not thought the mortals terribly concerned with Deceit or their persona. But perhaps it is more symbolic, in the end. Mortals often seek guidance, and they had deemed Deceit a guide. The ‘death’ even seems to discourage others from attempting the labyrinth at all. Many seem convinced that if, in the end, Deceit could be claimed by the maze, it truly was a risk too great to tempt.

Sairal’s services are less fervently sought.

Though, there are also some who take it upon themselves to attempt the labyrinth alone again. Bold elves who seem to believe they can become ‘guides’, and somehow gain prestige from it. It takes several fruitless ventures, and many more deaths, before the idea is quashed. And then there is another development. One of the nearby settlements deems an elf in their community to be corrupted by the presence of a malevolent spirit. Dirthamen does not know what to make of it, when they force this elf into the labyrinth. Though through Deceit’s new persona, he gathers that the local elves believe that the labyrinth was built by the gods to contain a dangerous and powerful abomination.

Which is a slight underestimation, but not wholly invalid.

In that mindset, however, some elves have decided that exiling further ‘abominations’ is a valid use of the space. The convenience of simply discarding unwanted persons into the maze seems to hold appeal - once the first prisoner is sent in, more follow. Few of which are actually touched by demonic energies of any kind, in fact.

It is not good.

The prisoners fall prey to Falon’Din, and their deaths feed into his hunger, and the strength of his will as well. Deceit attempts to dissuade this behaviour, but the mortals do not heed them. Dirthamen is forced to adapt the labyrinth again, and Fear is given the task of trying to guide the exiled prisoners through the maze. At length, some begin to make if through. Those that follow Fear and can overcome the trials, and are lucky and quiet enough to evade Falon’Din. Strangely, it seems that elves who make it through the labyrinth are, after some debate, cleared of their charges. The mortals determine that their survival is a redemptive act. Dirthamen is uncertain what to make of it, as in essence, the hope of the labyrinth  _is_  reformation. But it was meant for his brother. Still, the space does shape trials for the mortals themselves to conquer.

He supposes it is an unintended function, but at least Fear does not lead the mortals out only for their own kind to spill their blood outside the walls instead.

Five years after Sairal has become the Guide of the Labyrinth, a man deemed an abomination is condemned to walk the pathways.

It has been months since Sairal’s services as a guide were retained. The labyrinth’s new role as a form of legal punishment seems to have reduced interest in his services even further. Fear goes to try and help the newest prisoner avoid detection by Falon’Din, but not twelve hours later, a young woman beseeches Sairal to give her passage through.

When Sairal attempts to explain that they are not permitted to traverse the labyrinth within twenty-four hours of a prisoner’s sentence to it, the young woman attempts to bribe them. She seems fiercely determined, even claiming that she will go without or without the guide’s services.

It is very curious.

She is a striking figure. The name she gives them is Selene. Like moonlight, then. It suits her.

Dirthamen thinks her face would be one that might haunt his memory if she died.

So Sairal takes her coin, and goes with her into the outer ring of the labyrinth’s walls.

 

~

 

The condemned man is named Des.

Fear gathers this from listening to him talk to himself. Des is clearly not enthused to be in the maze. He spends the first hour of his time by the first wall, attempting to feel his way across the surface; obviously in search of some kind of exit. Fear watches. This is not the first time they have seen a mortal behave this way. Some pound at the walls. Others scream or cry or plead in terror. The outer ring is dark, but it is not pitch black.

Des only searches, however, before exhaustion seems to claim him and he sits for a while instead. He does not look as if he was kindly treated before he came here. There are bruises on his arms and legs, and he likely has not been offered food or water for too long a time.

“Okay,” he says to himself, as he sits in the dark. “Other people have done this. You can do it, too, Des. Just… keep to the outside. Just like she said. Around, not in. Around, not in…”

His breaths catch. Fear can feel Des’ fear through the labyrinth as well. He is afraid that he is going to die.

Under the circumstances, that is a very reasonable thing to fear.

Fear follows the prisoner silently. He is easy to track, not as quiet or stealthy as some. Occasionally he speaks to himself, and every once in a while his hand will brush over a warded segment of wall, and make the runes glow. That seems to bring him some comfort. Fear notices the mortal deliberately pressing the runes, after a while, to better navigate the smooth floors and darkened passageways. He hesitates at the first turn he comes to. There is still only one direction to take, but it bends inwards. For several long moments Des searches around himself, as if looking for another route. And then finally he resumes his trek. Keeping his hand upon the wall, as Fear senses Falon’Din begin to stir in the far-middle-west portion of the maze.

He is still a significant distance away when Des encounters his first Trial.

The labyrinth latches onto something of his thoughts, and begins to conjure up whispers. Shadows that trail behind Des and echo his footsteps; only to vanish whenever he turns to look. The walls shift subtly to cover the runes, until the mortal’s searching hands cannot find any. His footfalls halt, and hesitate again, and after a while he begins to stumble.

“It is going inwards…?” he murmurs to himself.

The sound is echoed back at him in whispers that make him flinch, and freeze.

The path has not changed directions. But after a few minutes, Des seems to become convinced that it has. He begins to backtrack. Following his original path backwards too far will not lead him to an exit, however; and following it further still would take him to the second ring, and that much closer to Falon’Din.

Fear brushes a wing against the ceiling of the maze. Along the path ahead, an illusion paints itself across the tops of the walls; the impression of sky and light, spilling in through ‘cracks’ in the maze structure.

Of course, there are no such cracks. But the light seems to draw Des’ attention back towards the path he had been taking.

He lets out a shaky breath.

“That’s… that’s daylight,” he says to himself. “Okay. That way.”

He begins to walk again.

“Of course, it could be a trap,” he muses, under his breath. “At least it’s brighter, though. And who I am I to resist the allure of shiny things? No one. Clearly.”

Fear wonders if the man is a thief. This seems an extreme punishment for such a minor offense; however, the values of mortals can often be baffling. Des continues to murmur to himself as he walks. There is not much light, and the labyrinth seems compelled to frequently draw him into darkness. The floors tilt and the whispers say terrible things to the man, but on balance, this trial is far less harrowing than some.

After a time, the walls of the maze grow higher. The light Fear conjured drifts further away. They flapping of their wings echoes, and the sound gives Des pause as they err just enough to cast the shadow of a wing over him. He looks towards them, but in the darkness they hide in, cannot actually see them, in the end.

A minute later, the prisoner swallows.

“This isn’t so bad, really,” he says. “Piece of cake, in fact, I don’t know what everyone’s always complaining about.”

Turning forwards, he begins to resolutely walk again.

Two hours later, he is flagging. He seems to feel as though he has been walking for days, rather than minutes. The darkness has won out, but Des has managed to keep his path straight by using his hand to anchor himself to the wall. He is sweating heavily, and his breaths are becoming laboured. He feels weighted. The whispers and the darkness are dragging upon him in earnest, now.

_“Demon child,”_  they say.  _“You killed your own mother. You know, deep down inside. That’s why you are really here. Here where you belong.”_

_“In the darkness.”_

_“With nothing, with no one.”_

_“Do you think death awaits you here?”_

_“No, demon child. There is nothing here. That is what awaits you.”_

_“You will wander here forever in the dark. No respite or mercy will find you. No comforts. No peace.”_

_“This is what you have earned.”_

Eventually, Des collapses. He falls against the wall, breathing heavily, and it is clear he will not make it to any exit without assistance. This is what some of Dirthamen’s modifications are for, however. Fear weighs their options, before descending to perch on one of the darkened sconces, on the wall across from the exhausted elf.

The sound of their wings seems to draw his attention. He blinks, unseeing, and tenses.

“What’s that?” he asks. “Don’t tell me some bird managed to fly into this place…”

Fear taps at the wall.

Speaking has never been their strong suit. Particularly not since the last time Falon’Din managed to catch them, several centuries ago. But they can caw, and they can tap their claws. And after a moment, Des seems to decide to follow the sounds they are making.

“This is probably a trap,” he tells himself, in a ragged, rasping voice. “Selene would be saying ‘don’t just follow strange noises in the haunted maze, Des’. Hypocrite.”

Fear caws.

“You’re probably not even a real crow.”

Fear caws again. Des staggers, but finally he comes to an archway. His hand slips from the wall to the opening, and he stumbles. All but falling through, and then blinking as several runes light up. Bright enough to illuminate a small room, with a running fountain, and several fruiting bushes arranged around its basin.

For a moment, Des stares uncomprehendingly at the sight.

Then he pulls himself hastily towards the fountain, and begins to gulp down Fear settles onto a carving above the fountain, and watches as Des drenches his face and shoulders in water, and drinks, and drinks, and then examines the berries. After a moment of scrutiny, he shrugs tiredly, and begins to eat them. After the first bursts on his tongue, he consumes many more. Until finally he sags onto a mossy patch of floor, and falls asleep.

Fear focuses their attention on Falon’Din’s movements, as more hours pass. They also glean things from the other aspects, as well, but more distantly. By the time Deceit is negotiating passage with a strange and determined young woman, Des has woken up again.

The elf stares up at them for several long, inscrutable minutes.

Then he shifts himself onto his knees.

“I don’t usually do this stuff,” he says, quietly. “And at some point I’m going to have to find a corner to piss in, which doesn’t seem… uh… respectful? But, no intentional disrespect is meant. For the record. So if you’re, you know.. listening. Dirthamen, God of Knowledge and Secrets, thank you very much for sending this bird and also I would like to not die in your heinous death trap. I’ll build you a shrine or something if you keep helping me out here. You’re the best, definitely my favourite of all the gods I don’t believe in. Or didn’t believe in. That’s not a firm ‘no’, just a really strong ‘probably not’. So… cheers, I guess?”

Fear blinks.

Des makes a few odd gestures, which seem vaguely similar to some mortal praying customs, and then gets up and, as foretold, finds a corner to relieve himself in.

When he is finished, he seems to be feeling somewhat better. Though he hesitates for several minutes before crossing the threshold back into the pathways of the maze. Fear can feel his trepidation, his reluctance to go back to the darkness and the danger, the whispers, and a fear of something even more than death. The sense of timeless void is not taking long to wear upon this one.

At length, however, he sets out.

With their presence now known, Fear does not bother to disguise it. Des seems to find it encouraging, in fact. While some who traverse the labyrinth seem to recognize Fear as ‘Deceit’s Raven’, and believe them to remain in the maze in search of a ‘lost master’, others have branded Fear an ill-omen and a dangerous illusion of the pathways. It is not uncommon for them to be attacked, or viewed as ‘mocking’ the travelers.

Des does not seem to take either approach, however. Instead, he appears to believe that Fear is a boon sent by Dirthamen.

It is strange to have a mortal make an accurate assessment, for once.

Fear’s focus on Des is distracted when Falon’Din begins to move swiftly towards a new location. He does not appear to be heading towards themselves or Deceit, however. Despite having occupied the labyrinth for centuries, Falon’Din is not adept at navigating it. The space is designed to challenge him. His interest has him moving closer to the center of the labyrinth, which has Fear letting out a slightly sigh of relief.

That keeps him far away from the relevant points of interest, for now.

When they turn their attention back towards the prisoner, it is to realize, however, that the labyrinth itself is reacting more strongly to Des’ sustained presence.

Wraiths are beginning to manifest.

Projections created by the labyrinth and pulled from the background noise of Des’ thoughts. Unlike the shadows of before, these ones are solid, and capable of inflicting physical injuries. Fear watches as they begin to manifest. Des keeps moving, which is good. He seems to have noticed some of the odd sounds, and the shift in the atmosphere around him.

“Bird?” he calls, quietly. “Are you still there?”

Fear caws an affirmative.

“Okay. Don’t come down here. I think there’s something… I think something’s following us.”

Fear caws another affirmative, and Des begins to speed up. He does not have much energy, however. Despite the water and the berries, and the sleep, he still seems to be tired. The labyrinth itself weighs upon him. The shadows here are heavy.

It is not long before a wraith finally forms and manages to catch up to Des.

It takes on a shape caught somewhere between wyvern and wolf, and charges at him. With a startled curse, Des breaks into a run. The wraiths are complicated constructs. Without their target, their existence cannot be maintained; yet they are driven to manifest some aspect of the creator’s fears. Originally the energies that make them were designed to provide Falon’Din with challenges to overcome. However, his presence has somehow perverted them, and now they are mostly prone to pursuing mortals through the labyrinth and feeding off of their terror.

Most wraiths do not actually catch their targets, nor wish to. But the fear of being chased is often enough to drive their victims to more dangerous parts of the maze. And the snapping, snarling jaws of the wraith have every change of injuring Fear, too.

They fly slightly ahead, and hope to direct Des towards the correct passageways. But the elf is too focused on evading the wraith. He runs with little regard for direction, after a time, losing track of the outer wall and then staggering down random corridors. More wraiths join the first, which only amplifies Des’ fear and makes him more desperate. The walls of the labyrinth distort around him, trying to pen him in, and succeeding in driving him deeper towards the next ring. Fear caws a warning.

The wraiths lunge.

Des makes a sharp turn and flings himself through the archway to the next layer of the maze.

 

~

 

Deceit and Selene have barely crossed the threshold into the maze when Selene begins to visibly search for something.

“Des?” she calls. “Des! Can you hear me?”

Deceit watches, curious, as Selene makes her way towards one turn in the path, only to reverse course and head for another. She calls out for ‘Des’ several more times. But even as she does, her gaze rakes over their surroundings with obvious interest. The outer layer of the maze is dark, but Deceit is particularly good at illuminating it. The light from their staff bounces off of the smooth, black walls, and coaxes veilfire into the sconces set inside them.

This is not the first time that someone has come into the labyrinth in search of one who was lost here. They are not entirely surprised; such people are typically the hardest to deter from entering of their own accord, with or without a guide. And Selene had threatened just such a thing.

Although, they are still somewhat surprised to hear her calling the name of the exiled criminal who Fear is currently with.

“You knew the prisoner,” Deceit surmises.

Selene hesitates.

“I  _know_  him,” she corrects. “He’s not a criminal. I mean, Des has his faults, but he didn’t murder anyone. He doesn’t deserve to be here.”

Deceit tilts their head.

“No, he does not,” they agree, readily enough. “There is only one being that deserves to be here, and he has been in residence for a long time.”

Selene falters, somewhat.

“You’re talking about the monster,” she guesses. “The demon at the heart of the maze.”

Deceit nods.Though, at the moment, the demon is slightly west of the heart of the maze.

They are somewhat surprised when Selene reaches out and grasps their wrist. They wonder, for a moment, if she intends violence. Threats or coercion. Those are also not uncommon, from mortals within the maze. However, her gaze turns beseeching.

“My father crossed the labyrinth, when he was younger,” she tells him. “He went with your mentor. He never spoke to me about it, but I found his notes on the journey once, when I was cleaning. He saw the demon. He described it as being like a  _fallen god,_  and my father was not given to romantic over-exaggeration. Who could possibly think it’s justice to subject someone like Des to something like that?”

Deceit considers this. Very few travelers have seen Falon’Din and lived to tell the tale.

“Is your father Elrogathe?” they wonder.

Selene halts in surprise.

“I… um. How could you guess that?” she replies.

“Not many travelers have survived seeing what he saw,” they explain.

After a moment, Selene sighs.

“I guess your mentor told you a lot. Alright, yes, he is,” she says. “But I would appreciate it if you didn’t spread that around. I’m not supposed to be here. And after this, Des and I are going to disappear, and not come back. We don’t need anyone hunting us down to drag me back to the clan.”

Deceit nods, though they do not entirely understand.

Selene gives them an entreating look again.

“So will you help me?” she asks. “I just need to find him. Then we can all leave, I don’t care if we make it to the other side or not. So long as we get out alive.”

“That is a good perspective,” Deceit commends. “But it would be better to try and make our own way out. Entry and exit points in the labyrinth are difficult to predict. Your friend could very well be nowhere near here, even though we both came in by the same gate.”

Indeed, according to their sense of Fear, Des is on the opposite side of the maze.

“No. We  _have_  to find him,” Selene insists. “Before they took him, I told him everything I knew about the labyrinth. All the things I’d read in my father’s notes. He’s still alive, and if we can just figure out where he is, you can lead us out.”

“He may find his own exit before we encounter him,” Deceit explains.

Selene does not seem convinced.

“Just…” she begins. Then she lets out a long breath. “Where might he be? Do you know?”

They consider this matter for a moment, and then nod.

“I know.”

“Then let’s go get him! I swear, I’ll find a way to send you more money, to compensate. I know it’s dangerous,” she says. “But if you really think that no one other than that monster should be in here, then please, help me rescue my friend?”

After a moment, Deceit lets out a sigh.

“We may head in that direction,” they decide. “But if we reach an exit first, then you are leaving. I will come back to find your friend myself.”

Selene takes in a breath, as if to speak. But after a moment, she only lets it go again, and nods in agreement. Deceit cannot escape the impression that she is only feigning capitulation. But the advantage in this situation is still their own; they find themselves hoping that Fear will safely guide this ‘Des’ out before Deceit and Selene reach an exit, because they suspect that even if they get her safely back outside again, Selene will return to try and find Des if he cannot be produced in short order.

But she does not seem keen to press the point now, as Deceit begins to lead her along the outer ring of the labyrinth.

Much of this ring’s magic is focused on illusions, and spatial distortions. Walls grow and shrink, shadows spread, at times the floor looks like water, at times the ceiling seems like a deep and dark mirror. The air can be oppressive, and hallucinations are not uncommon. That is in addition to the actual illusions, that pluck and pull at material from mortal minds.

It does not take long before the pathways they are traversing decide to become cramped.

The walls grow tight. The spaces narrow, and solid. Deceit must move their staff sideways to keep hold of it, while Selene struggles to pull herself through. Unlike her guide, she cannot simply narrow her frame in discreet ways that make it easier. Her hands press against the walls, and her bag scrapes and rattles as she pulls it along behind her.

“Is it all this tight?” she asks, sounding short of breath.

“No,” Deceit tells her. “It is feeding off of your subconscious and fears. The walls are attempting to crush and confine you because you feel trapped.”

This is not an uncommon feeling within the labyrinth itself. But it must be rooted in something deeper for it to manifest like this.

Selene smacks a hand against the narrow passage, and lets out a stuttering breath.

“So, what? You’re saying it’s a… a mind-over-matter thing? If I stop being afraid then the passage will get bigger?”

“No,” Deceit replies, with a shrug. “We do not have time for you to reach internal philosophical equilibrium on the confines of your life. Eventually, though, the labyrinth will pick up on something else to manipulate.”

“…Oh.”

They push on for several more moments. Though the space does not get tighter, Selene seems to think that it is at many points. She does not complain the way that some do, but it is clear that the longer the situation persists, the more distressing she finds it. Eventually, her words fall away, and she goes quiet. Deceit does not think her outlook has improved, however. It seems more that she has simply reached a point where she is no longer able to move and speak at the same time.

After several hours, they do manage to reach a resting point, however.

The narrow corridor gives way to a small fountain chamber. Selene sobs, once, and drops to her knees once she has the space to do so. Her muscles are trembling, and her elbows are bruised. Deceit hesitates for a moment, before venturing a hand to her shoulder. She does not seem to take the gesture badly. While she recovers, they head over to the fountain, and retrieve some supplies for her. There is a single fruiting pear tree, and a basin of clear, flowing water. Fruit is not always the best food for mortals, but there was only so much that any aspect could coax into growing within the labyrinth.

Selene has supplies of her own, at least. She does not seem to recollect the existence of her pack until Deceit brings her a pear and a freshly filled waterskin.

“Where…?” she asks.

Then she seems to notice the chamber they are in, for the first time. Deceit supposes she was so relieved to simply have  _space,_  the rest of it must have escaped her attention.

“How is that growing?” she asks, looking from the pear to the tree. “There’s no sunlight here.”

They shrug, by way of answer.

Selene seems dubious of eating the pear, or drinking the water.

“Is it safe?” she asks them.

“Quite safe,” Deceit assures her. “Chambers like these are only in the outmost ring. Venture deeper inside, however, and anything like this would be an illusion. The maze is a prison. It is designed to draw its prisoner back towards the center of it, to offer temptations and tricks that make finding an exit more challenging. Sometimes it will use unpleasant measures, but sometimes it will create enticing lures, as well.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Selene says, and then tentatively takes a drink.

Though her initial movements are careful, before long she is draining the waterskin, and then devouring the pear. She opens her pack and retrieves some of her own supplies, and even offers Deceit a strip of cured meat and some travel bread. They decline, gesturing towards their own rations. An illusion, but one that helps in situations like these. It will do no good for mortals to waste their precious supplies on one who does not need them.

“We should keep moving,” Selene decides, when she can find her feet again.

“This is a marathon, not a sprint,” Deceit advises her.

“I’ll rest more readily when we’ve found Des.”

Without much recourse to her stubbornness, Deceit can only acquiesce, and show her to the exit from this fountain room.

They direct Selene towards the safest paths they can, as they attempt to reach Fear’s position. Still, the labyrinth responds to the presence of the minds within it, and with a growing aptitude for creating disturbances. Before long the path of the maze begins to sink into water. Black and still, creating an obvious sense of depth as high walls sink into it. As with the shrinking passageways, Selene fares well enough at first, but begins to flag as they are forced to swim. Phantoms pass by in the darkness above them. Spirit fragments that leech the heat from the corridor, and begin to show flashes of images. Deceit only sees a little of what it shown, too busy swimming to note much beyond a man with red hair, and a splash of crimson blood. But Selene’s swimming strokes falter. Deceit has to extend her staff towards her to help her make it to the next ledge, and when they climb up, she seems frantic.

“Did you see that?!” she asks.

“The fragments are pulled from reflections of your thoughts,” Deceit tells her.

“But did you  _see?”_

“No,” they admit. “I was focused on swimming.”

Selene looks like she’s trying to decide if she believes them or not. After a moment, she lets out a breath, and sags against the ledge.

“We should not linger here,” they advise her. Wraiths can form in these corridors, and if they are not moving, they will be easy to catch and harass. Selene shivers, but after a moment, she permits Deceit to help her to her feet. The labyrinth’s water clings almost like oil to her skin. Her face seems pale in the light of their staff, but after a moment, she starts moving again.

This segment of the labyrinth seems to want to offer them many branching tunnels, after that point. The air lightens somewhat, but only to reveal what seem to be dangerously crumbling ruins. The faint scent of smoke clings to the stonework, in the place of slime and dank. But despite that, the cold remains, and the water on their skin makes the smoke cling to them.

Between the crumbling stones of the walkways, Deceit sees flashes of images. Like the ones visible while they swam.

“Don’t look,” Selene asks them. Or perhaps says to herself, as well. Deceit keeps their head up, and that seems to ease her some. Though as they progress, the images seem to appear in more places. Never with enough clarity for Deceit to glean much from them; but apparently with enough context that Selene is deeply unnerved by what they might witness.

It makes her want to leave this corridor, Deceit can tell. But all of the turn-offs only lead deeper into the maze.

After two hours, they have to restrain her from turning down the nearest archway that promises a change of scenery.

“Not that way,” they say, firmly.

Selene swallows, but does not protest. As they direct her down the same path, one of her hands closes around their wrist again.

After a moment, they decide to permit the contact. While letting people touch them can be dangerous, they do not think this will be one of those situations. Selene seems to fold in on herself as they start moving again. Deceit cannot change much about the labyrinth’s format - though they created it, such complex magics have long since developed past their ability to deliberately control without extensive renovation - but they can shift the light of their staff so that the images are less visible. More muted; like reflections on the surface of a lake.

If it helps Selene or not, they cannot tell.

But it is inevitable that the labyrinth begins to develop wraiths, before long.

Most they pass by without Selene even seeming to notice them. But eventually a heavy, dragging rhythm of footsteps starts to follow them. Deceit turns, and notes the wraith. It has taken on the form of a tall, red-haired elven man, but with distinctly corpse-like qualities. When Selene notes the wraith, she freezes up. Rooted to the spot, as the figure lurches closer.

Deceit prods her.

“We must keep moving,” they say.

Selene backs away from the wraith, and then takes off at a run. Deceit keeps pace with her. To their relief, she still lets them direct their course, but no matter how fast she manages to go, the lurching wraith remains the same length of distance behind them.

“It is an illusion,” they tell Selene. “But do not let it catch you.”

She lets out a ragged breath.

“If it’s an illusion… then why can’t I let… let it catch me?”

“Because it is a very  _solid_  illusion.”

Selene makes an odd sound, somewhere between an incredulous laugh and a pained groan, and asks no further questions in favour of breathing while she runs. They cannot hold their pace indefinitely, however. At length, Deceit begins to slow; and after a moment, despite her obvious reservations, Selene follows their own slackening pace.

The wraith remains the same distance away from them regardless.

“I do not think it will get much closer,” they say. “So long as we maintain a steady pace, we should be fine.”

Selene shakes her head, but does not actually voice a dissenting opinion. It’s clear that she is intensely disquieted, nonetheless, as they wind their way through several more corridors, and do not lose their persistent stalker.

Deceit is curious, of course. But they have learned that voicing such curiosity tends to make things worse, in terms of traversing the labyrinth. And Selene does not look eager to clarify the meaning behind the shape of the wraith or the fragmented visions; if anything, it is the opposite.

The pace being set remains grueling, however. When they slow down too much, the wraith  _does_  start to close the distance. But no matter how fast they go, they cannot gain any grew ground. Every inch of space they lose to catch their breath seems gone forever. The wraith’s gaze is blank, but every so often it breathes out a wordless sound, accusatory in nature; and Selene futilely redoubles her pace. They make their way through yet more corridors, until she begins to outpace Deceit; and their efforts to coax her back seem to fail.

Eventually, she breaks out into a run again.

“Leave me  _alone!”_  she calls back at the wraith.

“Selene! It is not real!” Deceit reminds her.

She does not seem to hear them. Her legs carry her towards the next turn in the maze, and she makes the wrong choice; heading deeper in, rather than remaining at the outskirts. Deceit speeds up to catch her, and correct the mistake. They grab her arm, but it is the wrong move to make. Selene cries out in fear, and flails away from them. Her feet slip across a smooth patch of weathered stone flooring, and her balance is lost, her limbs too tired to recover. Deceit sees a flash of fear across her face - directed over their shoulder, at the wraith behind them.

Then she falls into a pool of inky black water.

The currents are strong enough to drag her down. The environment weighing her, feeding off of her desire to get away from their pursuer. But a mortal elf can drown in the labyrinth’s water, as surely as she might drown in any lake or moat. Deceit secures their staff to their back, and then jumps in after her.

In the water Selene looks ghostly pale. Her hair fans around her head, and her fingers reach towards them. They strike a rune on one of the nearby walls. The glow illuminates things, but more importantly, it triggers the maze into shifting. They swim downwards more determinedly, watching as the waters beneath Selene open up; though it still seems to take her by surprised when she goes from sinking to falling.

The black pool becomes the pitch-dark shadows of the ceiling above, as they two of them tumble downwards, and land several corridors over; just shy of the next layer of the maze. Deceit lets out a breath of relief, while Selene coughs and sputters. The wraith is gone, at least; if they can manage to avoid encountering any more, they might be able to make it to where Fear and Deceit are without much further incident.

As soon as the thought occurs to them, however, Deceit becomes aware of Fear’s own growing concern.

Des is running from his own wraiths.

And he is faring worse than Selene. Deceit is caught, for a moment; watching through Fear’s senses as the exiled criminal speeds through corridors and is herded deeper and deeper into the labyrinth. Their breath catches as he flings himself into the next layer of the maze.

_No._

“…alright? Sairal?”

The urgency in Selene’s tone snaps them out of Fear’s mental space.

She is kneeling beside them, soaked and wide-eyed, looking desperately worried. At least until they meet her gaze. Then some of her fright seems to ease, and she lets out a long breath. Which turns into a cough.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, afterwards. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… I mean. Are you alright?”

Deceit pats their chest, and offers her a nod in answer.

What are they going to do? Selene will not leave the maze until they find her friend, but her friend has now gone deeper than they are. Fear has led travelers out of the maze from deeper places before, but most of them were experienced explorers who had gone in deliberately, with supplies and some notion of what might befall them. Des has nothing, and the inner rings cannot sustain him. Unless Fear can find a way back out to this level again… his fate is sealed.

Although.

There is chance… if someone were to bring supplies from one of the outer layer fountain rooms, if he had more help than what Fear can offer…

Deceit hesitates.

They have no way of conveying this information to Selene without giving up more about themselves than would be wise. Her brows remain furrowed as she gently urges them to sit back.

“I think we lost it,” she says, after a moment. “Do you… do you know where we are? Where we should go now, to find Des?”

Deceit weighs their options. Des may be doomed, but they could still save Selene. But if they get her out of the maze only for her to come back in search of her friend again, the situation will be more dire than before. They can sense Falon’Din. He is… closer to Fear’s location than they would like, though still not  _near_  to the aspect, or their charge.

With a heavy breath, Deceit gets to his feet again.

“We passed the point where we should have encountered your friend,” they say. “That means that either he has gotten out himself, or he has gone deeper into the maze.”

Selene pales.

“Des is alone,” she says. “With these things around… what are the odds that he actually got out?”

Deceit remains silent for a long moment.

“We are only a few hours away from an exit,” they say, at length. “I can see you safely out, and if your friend is not there, I can then come back for him myself. I will be faster on my own.”

The comment makes Selene flinch, for some reason. Before Deceit can really respond to that, however, she levels them with a resolute gaze.

“He went deeper,” she says. “Didn’t he?”

Again, they do not answer. There should not be any way for them to know.

Selene shakes her head.

“I can’t leave him.”

They sigh.

“Then we will need to find another fountain room, before we set out again.”

 

~

 

Fear flies swiftly as Des crosses the threshold into the next ring of the maze. They shift their form, increasing their size, and grow just enough to snatch the falling elf’s arms with their talons. He cries out in surprise, but Fear has no time to waste, as their path has veered straight across that of a patrolling varterral.

The archway becomes a blank wall behind them. The varterral rears back, startled at the sudden flurry of activity before it. The pursuing wraiths follow, and that ends up being a good thing. Their dark claws skitter across the labyrinth’s floors, and they streak into the path of the varterral, which proceeds to target them with its riled instincts. It jabs at the illusions, and buys Fear enough time to swoop down the corridor and flap their way up a nearby ledge, and finally deposit Des onto a safer path.

He is wide-eyed and panting as their own strength gives out for a moment. Fear shrinks back down to their normal size, and then they flop onto the ground.

They are not certain why they went to all that effort.

This prisoner does not stand good odds of surviving.

Des continues to stare at them in astonishment. At least until the sounds of the varterral and the wraiths fighting seem to jolt him from complacency. Fear nearly bites him when he suddenly reaches over and scoops them up; surprise, more than anything, stymies their reaction to the unexpected contact. But Des does not try and twist their neck or break their wings. Instead he tucks them under one arm as he begins to put more distance between the two of them and the labyrinth’s squabbling denizens.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he swears. Clearly at a loss for where to go. Fear could show him, if they could just catch their breath; but instead the panicked elf hurries them along, winding through passageways in an obvious effort to find a path back the outer layer.

It is not long before this segment of the labyrinth begins asserting itself, however.

Roots start to appear along the passageway. At first they just make traversing unsteady. But then the walls themselves start to turn to wood and bark. Gnarled trunks and branches sporting razor-sharp leaves, and tangled, stinging vines. The sounds of more varterrals follow behind them, though, and so Des barely hesitates before heading into the tree-like passageways.

“This isn’t so bad,” he says.

Fear works themselves loose from his grasp, recovered enough to fly on their own power. They flutter up towards the best pathway. Des has to crouch and crawl and climb by turns to reach them; each new segment they come to seems more overgrown and tangled than the last. But Des is not wrong. Despite the difficulty in traveling, the cover of the trees holds an illusion of safety, too.

There’s just one problem.

None of these passageways lead where they need to go.

Fear manages to find a way out of the network. However, Des is reluctant to follow. The path away from the center of the maze is dark, and empty. But the path closer to it has opened up into a segment of the labyrinth which resembles a pleasant grove. A waterfall gurgles, flowing into a gentle pond, and a blanket of flowers releases sweet meadow scents into the air. Fruit trees bend beneath the weight of plump and ripe offerings; bright enough to look like party decorations. And a seemingly-discarded keg of wine leans against a ruin stone, looking ancient but also well-preserved.

“Come on, birdie,” Des says. “Let’s just take a break. I need a rest.”

Fear caws insistently, and motions towards the other passageway.

“But this is even better than that other place you showed me! Look, we can go that way afterwards. Don’t you want some fruit?”

With another caw, Fear flies up closer to the correct passageway.

Des looks pained.

He shoots a glance back towards the grove.

“I’m gonna level with you, Birdie. I am not good at resisting temptation,” he says.

Fear feels their frustration mount as the fool elf then turns away from them, and heads into the illusion instead.

 

~

 

Fear is mad.

Fear is very, very mad. At Des.

Deceit hesitates as they cross the next threshold with Selene. Just long enough for her to regard them with some concern. But they pull her along through before she can remark on their hesitance, and then both of their attention is consumed by the sounds of agitated varterrals.

The entrance vanishes behind them. Selene watches it go with apprehension, before turning towards the hostile sounds awaiting them. The chamber they are in is large. Exposed. It gives off a quality that makes Deceit think of temples, and of the new tributes and shrines that the elves at the camp beyond the labyrinth tend to build. Etchings of the sun mark several high pillars. Elgar’nan’s visage glowers down at them from the end of a long walkway; and yet, as they progress, Deceit is given to the impression that the space is outdoors. The light is orange, but perhaps that is the glow of evening, falling across some kind of ceremonial pavilion. The scent of smoke clings to them again.

Selene is clearly disquieted.

“What are those sounds?” she wonders.

“Varterrals,” Deceit supplies. “They are guards, of a sort. If they are making this much noise, then it’s likely we are not too far from where your friend has ended up. Usually they are silent, unless they detect intruders.”

“Are they going after Des?” Selene asks, urgently.

“Yes,” Deceit supplies. “But they are not difficult to avoid, as long as one runs and does not attempt to fight them.”

“We have to get to him first,” she insists.

Deceit examines the chamber around them. There are several exits leading out from it. They take a moment to shift their senses towards Falon’Din, as well. He is… not as far off as they would like. But still not close enough to merit excessive concern. The trouble, of course, is that he is  _quick._  And if he should realize that there are mortals in the maze, he will become much,  _much_  more difficult to evade.

After a moment, they indicate the passageway to the furthest right.

“That one,” they decide. “It will take us closer to the varterrals without venturing deeper into the maze.”

Selene does not argue, or question their expertise. Which they appreciate. They head through the archway, and find themselves in a mirror-walled corridor. Their shadows throw distorted shapes. Selene keeps her eyes ahead, which is wise. Some of the things seen in the reflections are… not easy to look at.

And it means she does not spy the black shadow wings that unfurl behind Deceit’s reflections. Nor note the way their image shifts, from humble Sairal to the one they had first worn in the camps.

Selene herself is wreathed in a halo of fire, that makes the corridor flicker with the reflected light.

The first turn takes them to another chamber. Or what seems like one. In truth, it is just more of a passageway, but the illusion creates a sense of space. Shelves crawl up along the high walls. Illusionary corridors lead past them, and lanterns illuminate yet more of the same. Rows upon rows of sturdy stone shelving that glimmers with preservation runes, and holds a seemingly endless trove of scrolls, books, and tomes. Perfectly sealed, and written on in the ancient tongue.

Selene stops in her tracks, and stares at it all.

“It’s an illusion, right?” she asks. Deceit notes the symbol of Dirthamen hanging, ironically, over the exit.

“Yes,” they confirm. “There is nothing there but more walls, and a single true pathway that leads deeper into the maze. But the more you give into the illusion, the more depth it will attain, and the greater its hold on you will become”

Selene sighs.

There is a slightly wistful note to the sound. But then she follows them down the correct turn, and only clasps her hands together, as if to resist the urge to reach for a book and test their claims.

They pass through more libraries. And workshops. Seemingly ruined rooms, that pose as exposed parts of the maze, and display themselves as half-broken fragments of the magic used to create it. Those are the hardest to pull Selene away from, as she wonders aloud whether or not this might  _actually_  be a broken part of the labyrinth - and how valuable it would be to learn more about the spellwork used to create such a place.

The third time they are interrupted, Deceit gives in to an inexplicable urge.

“I know a great deal about this place,” they say. “If you are so curious, then I would be happy to share some knowledge with you. I promise it will be more accurate than anything the illusions themselves tempt you with; the knowledge they offer can only reflect your own knowledge back at you. Which is not invaluable, but would not help with your current aims.”

Selene’s cheeks darken at their comments. They wonder if they have given offense; but after a moment, she pulls herself away from the exposed crystals and ‘crumbled’ side passage, and falls into step alongside them again.

“You were taught by Deceit, right?” she asks them. “I heard about them, before they passed. People said they were brilliant. It must have been amazing to study with them.”

Deceit blinks.

“Brilliant?” they ask.

Selene blinks back at them.

“What? You don’t agree?” she asks, uncertainly.

“I would not  _disagree,”_  they say, after a moment. They shrug. It is a useful gesture, and one they are glad they picked up on before they took on this guise. It looks much less stiff on Sairal. “I simply did not know they were held in such esteem. Though I suppose that would explain the unfavourable comparisons between us.”

Selene frowns a little.

“You seem very adept at all of this to me,” she assures them. “I don’t see how anyone could compare you unfavourably to your predecessor. My father’s notes didn’t even mention any safe resting places, and you are helping me even though… even though it is dangerous, and you don’t even know if I can get you the payment I promised.”

“I do not do this for money,” Deceit assures her. They mean the comment to soothe any worries she has that they will abandon this effort if she cannot offer them adequate compensation. But the comment just seems to make her curious.

“I guess there are easier ways to make a living,” she muses, voice a murmur. “But then, why…?”

“It is personal,” they say. They attempt to keep their tone apologetic.

Fortunately, Selene does not take offense. Some have, in the past. They find Deceit suspicious - Deceit does not suppose they can blame anyone for that, in the end.

“…Legacies are hard to put up with sometimes,” she says instead, after a moment. Her gaze slips towards the walls, and the passage before them turns sharply uphill. The incline is steep enough to stave off further conversation or inquiries. The next few temptations they pass go unheeded, and Deceit manages to keep them clear of the agitated varterrals. Unfortunately, the maze conjures up several dead-ends and even abruptly stops in a wall of thick-growing trees; too tightly interwoven for them to make their way through.

But at length, they discover a narrow, rickety staircase. Battered by inexplicable winds and dangling above a seemingly endless darkness. The bottom of the staircase opens out to a chamber that seems like a combination between a forest festival and a grand ballroom. An open night sky spreads overhead, and wraiths dance as revelers, while music plays and various unclothed figures undulate against one another in shaded corners. Long tables offer a vast array of wines and food. Selene flushes, and looks shocked at the sudden furor of noise and activity.

Deceit is less surprised. Fear is ensconced in one of the nearby trees, and cawing irately at the elven figure currently pouring mouthfuls of illusion down his throat.

A moment later, Selene herself spots him.

“Des!” she exclaims.

The elf looks over as Selene rushes to their reunion. Deceit is uncertain of what to expect - a romantic embrace, a tearful clutching of arms, or even a rush of apologies. They have seen many reunions by now, though, so they are not entirely taken aback when Selene hauls off and smacks the other elf.

“What are you doing?! You’re in a deadly maze! This is all  _fake!_  Why are you sitting on your ass drinking the air and letting those - those  _things_  get close enough to trick you?! Didn’t I tell you this place was dangerous? I told you to keep to the outside! This is not the outside, Des! You went further in!”

Des gawks.

“Selene?!” he asks, clearly astounded. His gaze flits over towards Deceit, and then back to his friend.

_Finally,_  Fear thinks.  _Now maybe he’ll_ ** _leave._**

Des does stand up, at least.

“What are you doing here? How did you even get here?”

“I told you I wouldn’t let them do this to you,” Selene snaps back at him. She gestures towards Deceit. “I used my dowry to buy the services of the actual labyrinth guide. We’ve been looking all over for you, to help get you back out again.”

Des looks flabbergasted.

“That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done!” he finally declares. “Don’t you know this place is a death trap?”

“Don’t  _you?”_

Fear flies over to Deceit and alights onto their shoulder, which seems to draw the mortals’ attention away from their argument.

Des’ eyes narrow. After a moment, he takes a cautious step back from Selene - who frowns at the movement.

“Wait,” he says. “How do I know this isn’t a trick?”

Fear caws at him in irritation.

_This? This is what he thinks is a trick, after hours of falling for the most obvious illusions in here?_

Deceit wonders if the man failed to realize that everything around him was false. Or if, instead, he knew full well - and had simply resigned himself to a more peaceful and indulgent end than death via monster. He would not be the first, though most who attempted such things were usually found by Falon’Din anyway. Or else they learned that death by dehydration was not an enviable fate, either.

The thought reminds them of the waterskins they filled with Selene before heading in from the outer ring.

“It’s not a trick,” they say, and toss one to the elf. He catches it, though he still seems wary.

Selene sighs at him.

“How can we prove it?” she wonders.

Deceit shrugs.

“We can’t,” they say. “Either he’ll take the chance or he won’t. But none of  _this_  is real. If he remains here,the monster will find him. Or he’ll die of thirst while drinking imaginary wine. But, the former option is more likely.”

Selene gives her friend a hard look.

“I’ll carry him out myself before that happens,” she says.

Des sighs.

“Alright,” he says. “I suppose you  _could_  be real. Especially since everyone still has their clothes on, and that guide of yours is sort of plain looking. No offense. But my imagination tends to be much more colourful than that.”

Deceit only shrugs again. Though they are surprised to find themselves feeling vaguely annoyed, too. They cannot place why. Sairal’s appearance is deliberately neutral. It has helped somewhat in reducing the instances of harassment on a few fronts, though it seems to be contributing to their reduced popularity as well.

Des is a handsome elf, and Selene is strikingly beautiful.

Deceit frowns, slightly.

_“Des!”_  Selene protests.

“What?”

“Sairal came to help!”

“You just said you paid them to!”

“That doesn’t mean you can be a jerk-”

  
”How was I being a jerk? I was just making an observation…”

The pair of mortals bicker for a while, as Deceit tries to unobtrusively check their reflection in the surface of a nearby pond, and Fear’s annoyance grows. Eventually, Fear breaks the disruption with an irate caw.

Selene points at them.

“That’s a raven,” she says.

“Well spotted,” Des quips.

She gives him a  _look,_  and he subsides.

“Elrogathe mentioned ravens in his notes,” Selene continues, pointedly. “He said they helped guide him out of the labyrinth. Deceit used to train them to assist travelers who became lost in the maze, didn’t he?”

“I think Dirthamen sent it,” Des counters. “Birdie’s been keeping me company. It even saved me from one of those spider things - it can change size. It’s magic.”

Deceit glances at Fear.

Fear responds with the equivalent of an internal shrug.

Selene comes closer, and gives Deceit a look that makes them think she is expecting them to illuminate the situation. She ventures a tentative hand towards Fear; and when they offer no protest, lightly pets at their feathers. Before she can ask more, however, Des finally moves from the segment of the chamber where most of his lounging seemed to be happening. The wraiths posing as revelers take note; they glance, faceless, to where the four of them are standing.

The shift in the atmosphere is not lost on either Des or Selene, either. Selene’s hand freezes next to Fear’s head.

The wraiths begin to murmur with indistinct whispers.

“I think it is time to go,” Deceit says, calmly.

“Which direction…?” Selene asks.

The wraiths start to move towards them.

With a swift turn, Deceit shoves Des towards a tunnel half-hidden by the decorative overgrowth.

“That one!” they say.

Right before the wraiths begin to charge.


End file.
